After The Flight
by bennybear
Summary: Alternative to Deathly Hallows, starting the night of Dumbledore's death and ending a few months after the final battle. The story is compatible to the first six books and contains spoilers for them. Special thanks to Sevena and duj for betareading.
1. After the Flight

Author's note: The story presents an alternative to "Deathly Hallows". It is, however, compatible to the first six books.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

- - - - -

He woke in a cave. Lying very still on what appeared to be a camp bed, staring at a ceiling of rock face, he tried to recollect what had happened.  
He'd run. Faster and harder than ever before in his life, unseeing, his lungs burning, and his right side aching almost beyond endurance. He'd run for his life.  
But there was no point to it: His life was over.  
He had trembled like a wet beagle. His hand had shaken so violently he couldn't have aimed at a grown Hebridean Black. In the end, Snape had accomplished in a second what he'd been unable to do in several long minutes. A heartbeat later, Snape had made him run. Yet, what for? He'd failed, and the Dark Lord did not tolerate failure. Nor those who failed.  
Moving a little, he discovered that he was unbound, which seemed a bit odd. His wand was gone, however.  
There was a gap in his memory. He remembered running, but not how or where the flight ended. Now he was, seemingly, in a dimly lit cell.  
Strange smells drifted towards him. Turning his head to see where they came from, he realised that the room was considerably bigger than expected. A small fire was burning several feet away. Next to it, a dark figure crouched on the tiled floor stirring gently the contents of a gleaming cauldron.  
He jumped to his feet.  
"Where are we?" he demanded. The unwonted hoarse sound of his voice startled him.  
"In a cave," replied the figure without bothering to turn around.  
"Where is my wand?"  
Snape pointed wordlessly.  
Draco came closer and gave a gasp of horror. His wand was broken into three pieces, each of which was carefully singed on both ends. There was no hope whatsoever of mending it.  
"Why?" he yelled.  
"Why? You are a danger to yourself, my dear boy. And your mother wants you to live."  
"Who cares what my mother wants?" he screamed, fury momentarily overcoming his fear.  
"I do. I promised her."  
"You... you stole my chance to restore honour to my family's name," Draco spluttered. "You beat me to it... You marred everything I was striving for-"  
"You were not going to kill him," Snape said, rising from his work.  
"Of course, I was!"  
"Your lying is even worse than your killing," Snape said with the faintest curl of his lip. A gash stretched across his face from the left temple to the chin. His coat was torn and bloodstained.  
Draco stared at his former teacher, his cheeks burning with anger and shame and humiliation. With an effort, he tried to close his mind although it was probably too late. Snape was an accomplished Legilimens.  
"Will you tell the Dark Lord?" he asked anxiously.  
"I shall report to him within the next hour."  
"What will you say?"  
"I am convinced that, notwithstanding what vows I may have made, I am under no obligation to discuss my strategy with you."  
"Fine. I'm going, then," Draco snapped. He wasn't in the mood for subtle rhetoric.  
"You can't."  
"You're not telling me what I can and what I cannot!" he shouted.  
"I repeat: you cannot leave this cave unless I let you."  
"You're keeping me prisoner?" Draco asked in a strangled voice. Every syllable betrayed his lack of composure now.  
"If you choose to see it this way, I won't argue the point. However, this accommodation is certainly by far more comfortable than – even without the Dementors – Azkaban."  
Draco shuddered.  
"Three attempted murders should earn you a prolonged stay there, provided Scrimgeor gets his paws on you. Though he won't. You can't be found here except by-" Snape broke off, thinking.  
"Except by the Dark Lord," Draco finished the sentence. Fear was clutching at his heart. He was going to die, probably soon. All he could hope was that it would be quick and painless.  
"No, your mother wants you sound and save," Snape said. "I am bound by my vow to comply with her wish."  
"You are going to p-plead with the Dark Lord to s-spare me?" Draco stammered incredulously.  
"Certainly not. I won't risk my reputation on behalf of an ambitious but inept teenager. The Dark Lord does not forgive."  
The words went through Draco like icy daggers.  
"Entrusting an utterly inexperienced novice with a task of this magnitude was a very clear statement indeed. Did you not realise what was expected of you? The son pays, if necessary with his life, for the offences of the father. These are the rules."  
Draco couldn't help trembling again. Kill Dumbledore or die trying, aunt Bellatrix had urged him. All his hard work, all his efforts to repair the old vanishing cabinet, his resolve to restore some honour to the name of his family by serving the Dark Lord had been in vain... He'd never been meant to succeed...  
"Your best option would have been to accept Dumbledore's offer," Snape continued and, unbidden, the headmaster's strained face sprang to Draco's memory. _It is my mercy and not yours, that matters now._ Realising Snape's stare on him, he desperately tried to close his mind.  
"I do not need Legilimency," Snape told him coldly. "It is enough to know Dumbledore. Or, more accurately, to have known him. He did have the power to protect both you and your mother."  
The last remark sent Draco's heart racing.  
"My mother-"  
"There is nothing I can do for your mother anymore," Snape cut across him. "She should have thought sooner about whom she married or how she raised her offspring."  
"He'll kill her," Draco whispered.  
"Possibly. Maybe someone was sufficiently quick to warn her. Whether she can run fast enough and far enough is another question."  
No, she couldn't, Draco thought sadly. Nobody could hide from the Dark Lord's wrath. And it was his fault alone. He'd messed up, even worse than his father had done before. He had stood there, wand raised – and had done nothing. But it had felt so wrong... It should have been easy to kill this frail old wizard, shouldn't it? _I am more defenceless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted_. What was heroic about killing an unarmed man? Where was the glory? If Dumbledore had put up some fight, well, perhaps he could have persuaded himself that it was self-defence... a handy lie to soothe the whimpering weakling inside his chest...  
"There is no necessity to blame yourself for your mother's lack of courage," Snape stated. For the first time, a tiny hint of warmth coloured his voice. It vanished as he continued: "You were underage. When Narcissa gave her consent for you to join the Death Eaters, she was not only aware of the perils in general. She did know that the only atonement the Dark Lord would accept was a human sacrifice."  
"She cried. I... I thought she was weak and pathetic."  
"You did?"  
Yes, he had, Draco thought ashamed. To him the task had looked easy. Figuring out a plan to kill the unsuspecting old fool of a headmaster and follow through with it hadn't seemed a big deal. To realise how much he'd been mistaken was devastating.  
"You are save here for the time being," Snape said turning back to his potion. "The dwelling is protected by the most efficient spell."  
"I've got a Secret Keeper here?" Draco asked bewildered. "Who?"  
"Albus Dumbledore. And he is, as you will realise, not likely to tell anyone."  
He could not make sense of this. "How come you know, then?" he asked at last.  
"He trusted me."  
"Ah," Draco muttered under his breath. "Look where it got him..."  
"He got what he deserved," Snape answered softly.  
Draco made no reply. In silence, he watched the man fill burgundy gel in little phials and seal them.  
How could anybody kill in such cold blood? Snape was a deeper mystery to him than ever before. What the man intended to do with him, he could only guess. Apparently, he was his prisoner. However, the room didn't correspond with Draco's mental picture of a jail. It was too large and too comfy.  
On the far side of the fire there was a large basin, surrounded by a variety of potted plants. The wall behind was smooth and light blue. Light was actually emanating from there. The array gave the impression of an afternoon sky looked at through an open window. Draco looked round. To the right, there was a stove, a battered cupboard laden with pots and pans, a table, and two extraordinarily mismatched chairs. On the left hand side there was an alcove hewn into the rock, at least it looked man-made rather than natural. The camp bed fitted in too exactly. Next to the alcove, books were stacked like firewood. There had to be approximately one thousand of them since the pile was as long and wide as the bed and more than six feet high. Another alcove with a heavy curtain followed. And, most intriguing, a narrow door was set in the otherwise bare rock of the wall opposite the basin.  
"That will do," Snape announced suddenly. He put the fire out with a barely visible flick of his wand and turned off the magic smoke neutraliser, which hung suspended from the ceiling. "You will discover that you cannot leave this place. Therefore, you won't be able to obey any call by the Dark Lord." He thrust a cardboard box full of little red phials into Draco's hands. "In such situations, which will occur without doubt, you should apply this ointment to your Dark Mark. It will reduce the pain to a sufferable measure."  
"You're going?"  
"Certainly," Snape said and left. He didn't use the door but marched straight through the rock beside it.  
Draco didn't try the enchanted barrier. He put down the cardboard box gingerly, staggered across the room to the bed and slumped on it. His whole body shook with fear and apprehension. Random images popped into his mind – wild, chaotic, unbidden. The fight at the bottom of the stairs, Longbottom hexing him, Dumbledore's smiling blue eyes, Fenrir Greyback, Dumbledore's incredible pluck in the face of impending death, Snape, the escape, Dumbledore offering him help, Dumbledore, Dumbledore, and Dumbledore again.  
_Good evening, Draco... A very clever plan and, as you say, right under my nose. We all like appreciation for our own hard work... Let us discuss your options, Draco. I appreciate the difficulty of your position. I can help you... Draco, you are not a killer. Let us have no more pretence about that_.  
"We can hide you more completely, Draco, than you can possibly imagine."  
Draco gasped with horror. He could have sworn that he'd just heard Dumbledore's actual voice.  
How could somebody be dead already and still winning a battle?


	2. When you have decided where your loyalti

When you have decided where your loyalties lie

He gulped in the cool night air. It didn't help. He'd been fighting the urge to vomit for several hours. It felt strangely comforting to give in at last. Panting and sweating he knelt on the soil. Even after his stomach was as empty as it could possibly be, he kept retching for a while.

_Severus, please..._

He'd pleaded with the old man. Had told him more than once that he was asking too much of him. But to no avail. _This is the logical thing to do_. Logic, yes. You couldn't shun logic. Especially not Dumbledore's logic. Yet, he had hoped right till the last moment that another solution would present itself...

Eventually, he dragged himself away from the sour-smelling remnants of his last Hogwarts dinner. He sat down leaning against the Menhir from which he had emerged.

A Menhir. Only Dumbledore could have come up with such an idea – to use Rowena Ravenclaw's summer lodge as a hideout. The eccentric witch had created herself a holiday home in a style that was already ancient in her days. Nobody, apparently not even the Dark Lord, knew it still existed. And worked. In fact, the last cavity that still worked. _I found_ _a fully functioning Menhir. It will make the perfect hiding place_. True. The once flourishing Menhir culture was almost completely forgotten. Only muggles regarded the abandoned standing stones with some interest. Narcissa's spoilt brat could stay here for months if necessary.

The poor wretch had narrowly escaped doom tonight. Had been faced with the typical dilemma: to kill or to be killed. This was how the Dark Lord recruited followers – by forcing them to violate their own troubled souls. He chose youths who were still too young to fully comprehend the consequences of their doing, sixteen-year olds with their heads full of juvenile, romantic nonsense, he selected people who were in enough trouble to clutch at straws, or such ones whose abilities were too limited for their own ambition. All of it fitted more or less for Draco. With nobody but his weak mother and a vicious aunt to guide him, he was easy prey: Kill, and your father will be pardoned. Or you will die along with him. Your choice.

He sighed.

Draco wasn't the only one presented with a choice that was none. _You have given your word; you cannot back off now_. No, he couldn't. He'd made his decision years and years ago. Had bided his time pretending to be a person he wasn't._ You have waited too long for your chance. I know you are not going to waste it._ Dumbledore had been an accomplished Legilimens. Knowledgeable, insightful, strong. Even the people who had called him the greatest wizard of all times had never realised to what lengths this man was prepared to go to reach his goals.

_Severus, please... it is now or never._ Yes, it had been the reasonable thing to do. The only thing that wouldn't make matters worse. Considering the circumstances, you could even say it was an act of mercy. Even so, he had hated himself for doing it.

Being given choice between ultimate evil and ultimate betrayal he had proven himself worthy of the trust that had been bestowed on him.

He sighed again.

He'd done well doing evil. From this time forward, young Potter's righteous wrath would follow him wherever he went. Like a shadow. Like a cloaking device. He allowed himself to envision the boy's face. The tantalising green eyes. Harry, the boy-who-lived. The Chosen One. It was kill or be killed for him, too. There was no such thing as fairness. No one had bothered to ask Babypotter's opinion about becoming a hero.

Both boys could have been his sons – Lily's if she had wanted him, and Narcissa's if he had wanted her. Needless to say, that Dumbledore had been aware of this irony. The man had known more about unrequited love, jealousy, craving and hatred, or hurt feelings than anyone might guess.

He rose to his feet. He could not afford to waste more time than he already had. Claiming to have followed the pathetic would-be murderer made merely a half-convincing excuse, especially because he didn't bring him back. The Order helping and hiding Draco Malfoy – was anyone going to believe this? Probably only someone who was extremely stupid – or extremely shrewd.

He examined his clothes. His boots were dirty, his robes bloodstained and sufficiently torn. The gash in his face rounded off his appearance as a man returning from a fierce fight. He could benefit from the fact that the others had been too far away to notice the blasted Hippogriff. He shuddered at the recollection of the last few minutes at Hogwarts. For a fleeting moment, when Potter in his pain and fury had had the cheek to call him a coward the temptation to throw all caution to the winds had been almost unbearable.

He mustn't tolerate such weakness. It might be fatal since he was likely to spend the rest of his life amidst thugs, connivers and, alas, lunatics.

He set off towards the forest to bring some distance between himself and the Menhir before Disapparating. He had to be careful because he had inherited an awesome responsibility.

_I trust you to succeed, Severus_.

Well, the time for arguing that point was past.

It remained to be seen whether, in the end, Dumbledore could be proven wrong.

end of part two


	3. Someone from the Past

Author's note:

I like to thank all people who wrote such kind and encouraging reviews.

I also like to apologise for keeping you waiting this long.

The next chapter will be about Harry, but please, be patient. It will take me some time to complete it. It can't be helped, I am a slow writer.

Chapter three

Someone from the Past

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

There was a noise.

Draco sat bolt upright and reached for his wand – a futile move as he realised with renewed terror. He didn't have a wand anymore.

He hadn't slept all night. Or rather, he hadn't slept since he had been here. The same soft light was emanating from the wall behind the potted plants. There was no way to tell the time in this cave.

Was Snape back? He strained his ears. The sound reminded him of bare feet tapping over the ground. Had perhaps an animal found its way in?

He got up to peer around the corner of the alcove.

They both sprang back in shock. They both yelled the same sentence: "What are _you_ doing here?"

To Draco's astonishment, the elf was first to regain enough composure to repeat the question.

"What are you doing here, young Mr Malfoy?"

"That's none of your business," Draco snapped.

"Dobby has to ask this question. Prof. Dumbledore told him to come here and check."

"He can't have! He's dead!"

The elf instantly became a picture of misery and sadness. Tears filled his huge, ugly eyes.

"Dobby knows... Prof. Dumbledore visited him yesterday shortly before dinner. To think it! The great wizard went personally to the kitchen to ask Dobby a favour..."

Sobbing, he produced a torn hankie from a pocket of his trousers and wiped his face. Then, putting the hankie away, he announced with surprising firmness: "Dobby will carry out Prof. Dumbledore's bidding. He has to ask what you are doing here. Are you hiding?"

"If I was?" Draco replied tersely.

"Then Dobby has to make sure that you are well."

Draco shook his head. 'Dobby is going to report you to Potter immediately,' was by far more likely. The Malfoy's former house-elf had defected to the other side years ago.

"Dobby doesn't like the task, but he will obey a dead man's wish."

"And what exactly did he order you to do?"

"Dobby doesn't take orders. Dobby is a free elf."

"You just said you'd obey..." Draco broke of. He was in no mood for this sort of debate.

"Are you alone here?"

Draco gasped. He dashed for the second alcove and pulled the curtain back. The bed was untouched.

_What is more, I can send members of the Order to your mother tonight to hide her likewise... come over to the right side, Draco..._

Why hadn't he just said yes?

No! He must not think like this! Snape would have spoilt it anyway.

"Are you hiding here?" Dobby inquired again.

"I suppose so," Draco said wearily. "Go, make breakfast."

The elf didn't move an inch.

"Dobby doesn't take orders," he said in a tone of voice that was highly inappropriate for a house-elf. "He will certainly take no orders from you, young Mr Malfoy. He will make breakfast when he sees fit."

Draco was completely lost for words. He stared at the little creature that was going on about taking baths and shaving. It took him a while to realise that the elf wanted _him_ to go to a bathroom. Was he making fun of him?

"What bathroom?" he asked at last.

"There is only one," Dobby retorted, pointing to the only door in the cave.

The splendour of the bathroom was in stark contrast to the rest of the cave. Accessories made of gold and sparkling crystal adorned a well-lit room that was tiled to the ceiling with rose-tinted Italian marble. The antique, framed mirror above the sink was a work of art.

Draco stepped closer to take a look at his reflection. He hardly recognised himself. There was absolutely nothing that could be done about the haunted expression on his face. So why bother to do something about the tousled hair or the stubble? He was a goner.

Gloomily he wondered whether Crabbe's and Goyle's fathers would be among those to watch him dying. Humiliation would come before death. He had no doubt about that. Perhaps he shouldn't add to people's glee by looking like the pathetic loser he was.

Sighing, he reached for the shaving kit, which sat on a shelf next to the mirror, when suddenly his Dark Mark went hot.

He had not been summoned while he was in Hogwarts lest Dumbledore became suspicious. However, he was capable of Apparating. His aunt had taught him to Apparate last summer because the Dark Lord did not concern himself with petty rules established by the Ministry.

The burning in his forearm increased rapidly. It spread out. Waves of stinging heat washed over his whole body. As they came faster and faster, he clutched either side of the sink for support. Yet, the pain forced him on his knees and then further down on the floor. He couldn't keep himself from screaming any longer. He screamed until the pain reached an intensity that gave him difficulty even to breathe. He wished he could lose consciousness and knew this wasn't going to happen.

_You will discover that you cannot leave this place._

Dimly he became aware of someone kneeling beside him.

With great effort, he managed to get out a few words about little phials filled with purple potion.

The elf disappeared, leaving him writhing in agony for – as it seemed to Draco – hours. Dobby, however, was back within seconds and applied the ointment to Draco's Dark Mark without being given any further instructions.

The pain didn't stop, though. It merely dropped to the level of common toothache and remained there.

Dobby pushed a folded towel under Draco's head.

The boy, lying very still on the marble of the floor, struggled not to think about what else the Dark Lord might do to him soon. He recalled whispered conversations between his father and other Death Eaters... It had never occurred to him that _he_ might be the quarry one day.

He desperately tried to distract himself from such horrifying thoughts by concentrating on memories that were more cheerful. Still, the images, which came up, were far from being pleasant.

He remembered lying on another bathroom floor, embarrassed beyond description, his father hissing above him.

_I will know if you do _that_ again..._

He remembered lying on yet another bathroom floor, drenched in blood and water, Myrtle screeching above him. He remembered the terrified look on Potter's face. He had not needed Snape to tell him Potter had not meant to do whatever it was he did. A misspelled hex – according to Snape. Well, the stupid Gryffindor's bellow had sounded a bit like Rictusempra, but not quite.

Potter. The famous Golden-Boy-Who-Lived.

The jerk was rubbish except for two things. He had an undeniable talent for fighting his way out of tight corners, and he could fly as if he was born on a broom.

Flying...

There had been _two_ brooms on that tower. Two brooms and Potter owned an Invisibility Cloak. Had he been there with Dumbledore? If he was – why hadn't he interfered? Why hadn't he tried to stop him from murdering his beloved headmaster?

It made no sense.

Dumbledore, the wizard who didn't hesitate to ask favours of house elves. Yesterday. How could the old man have known beforehand? And if he had known what was going to happen – why hadn't he done anything to prevent it?

Draco found no answers.

His arm hurt.

_I can help you..._

Dumbledore's voice again.

All the old man had done was trying to persuade him to change sides. He'd spoken so friendly to him. There had been no anger in his words, no fear in his eyes...

It made no sense. Nothing did.

- - - - -

Voldemort withdrew his wand from Severus Snape's Dark Mark.

"Half an hour," he muttered crossly. "Nobody can bear that amount of pain for such a time, especially not Lucius' pampered brat. The Order must have taken extraordinary measures to protect him. No wonder, you couldn't break through."

Snape didn't reply. It wasn't over yet.

"Unfortunately," Voldemort continued, "your actions last night have lost me a most valuable spy among their ranks. You do realise that I have to punish you for this, don't you, Severus my friend?"

"Yes, master."

"Crucio!"

Snape collapsed without a single sound escaping his lips.

He kept his mind focused on a jet of green light hitting Dumbledore squarely in the chest. It helped. It helped more than Voldemort could imagine. Otherwise, he would have found a means long ago to combine the Cruciatus curse with one that unfocussed the mind...

"On the other hand, you had little choice. To maintain your cover you would have had to dispose of everyone present on the tower," Voldemort sniggered evilly after lifting the torture charm. "The loss of Amycus and Alecto wouldn't be so lamentable, but terminating Greyback might prove to be tricky even for someone of your skills."

"Yes, master. I ask forgiveness for taking the liberty to anticipate your wishes," Snape said, his voice almost steady. He had managed to get into a crouching position. Every bone in his body was on fire, every muscle aching, every nerve screaming in falsetto. His mind, however, was still firmly focussed on the green light. "I thought you might want to... deal with Draco yourself."

"Ha! Remind me not to underestimate you." Voldemort's cold smile was as malevolent as ever. "I _will_ deal with him, since the Order can't hide him forever. He will meet a slow and painful death. And of course, dear Lucius, who turned out to be as useless as he is full of himself, will have the pleasure to watch his son dying from nearby."

A flick of a finger indicated to Snape that he was dismissed. With an effort, he pulled himself upright and staggered out into the bright sunlight.

He had done it. The wave of relief that rushed through his veins nearly swept him off his feet.

He'd done it. This was, finally, the big game.

And he was pulling the strings.


	4. Promises

"How could you!"

"I only wanted to help," Harry retorted defiantly.

"Yes, I know you meant well," Mr Weasley was obviously embarrassed. "But I can't accept this."

"Look, I'd like to think she's in a safe place," Harry said. He hadn't expected the Weasleys to feel insulted. "That would make it easier for _me_. You can as well say I was selfish."

Mr Weasley gave him an incredulous look. "The whole sum is for Ginny?" he asked. "For two years?"

Harry nodded and shrugged at the same time. "I could have told the goblins to put the money for Ron in your vault, too. But I know he isn't going to Beauxbatons."

"No, I'm sure he isn't unless you go there first," the man sighed. "And Ginny will be furious, do you realise that? Maybe I can make _her_ believe we could afford sending her to Beauxbatons. But not my wife. Molly knows perfectly well we wouldn't be able to pay the fee for a single term. What do I tell her?"

"Tell her the ministry had a fund to support exceptionally talented students in times of need," Remus Lupin said from the door. "No offence intended, Arthur."

"Have you been eavesdropping?" Mr Weasley exclaimed. He seemed even more embarrassed than before.

"Involuntarily," Remus said apologetically. "I'm here to find out why I can hear upstairs what is said down here in the kitchen."

Harry started. His thoughts shot back to the conversation he had held with Ron and Hermione last night.

"A fund?" Mr Weasley asked doubtfully.

"Why not? Molly would love the idea that, for once, they do something for you, Arthur, after all the work you've done for them," Remus said while he took out his wand and proceeded to check the ceiling and upper part of the walls for concealed magic.

"And I would love the idea of having at least one of my children out of immediate danger. You see, things are getting more complicated day by day. Charlie will return from Romania soon – he agreed to work for the Dragon Squad the ministry is setting up. Bill hasn't fully recovered yet and Percy, on the other hand, is still not on speaking terms with us. The twins do all sorts of things Molly hopefully won't learn too many details about and, seeing that he is of age, I can't stop Ron-"

"Speaking of the twins," Remus interrupted. "Did they not sleep, some months ago, in the same room as I do now?"

"I guess so," Mr Weasley said sheepishly while he watched Remus pulling something that resembled an Extendable Ear from behind the kitchen clock.

"Well, then I suppose this example of their ingenuity is responsible for the voices I hear," Remus chuckled. He tugged at the flesh-coloured string, which disappeared into the wall. "They're bright lads. And Ginny is a bright girl. Her marks are significantly better than Ron's as far as I know. That might pass for an explanation why she gets a scholarship and he doesn't."

"Well, yes, this is all very tempting," Mr Weasley conceded. Turning to Harry, he added: "But I'll never be able to pay you back such a pile of Galleons, not in ten years."

"It's not a loan, Mr Weasley. I don't want anything back."

Having run out of handy arguments, the man bit his lip. As much as it hurt his pride to accept money from a seventeen year old boy, so did he wish to send his daughter to Beauxbatons, which was – since Hogwarts was closed and Dumbledore gone – probably one of the safest places in the world.

He gave Harry a warm, fatherly hug and murmured: "Thank you, Harry, thank you... I don't know what else to say. I hope Ginny will make it up to you... one day... in a better future."

"Not if you tell her I'm involved in this plan," Harry, who was put slightly ill at ease by Mr Weasley's emotional behaviour, tried to joke. "She won't speak to me ever again."

"You better listen to him, Arthur," Remus remarked taking up the light tone. "She is her mother's daughter, no doubt about that."

Arthur Weasley nodded. "I'll take the good news to Molly right away. Term starts in less than a week."

Visibly relieved, he hurried out.

"I'm afraid the school board made a big mistake," Remus mused no sooner than the kitchen's door closed. "Not to open Hogwarts again might be exactly what Voldemort wants. Last time, the castle was our stronghold and -"

Harry made an impatient gesture. He put a Muffliato on the room and asked: "Did you hear what Ron, Hermione and I talked about last night?"

"I did," Remus admitted. He wanted to continue but Harry didn't let him.

"I want you to promise, no, I want you to _swear_, that you won't tell anyone. Not a syllable, not even to Tonks."

"Harry, is this not a little far-fetched? Who-"

"Swear!" Harry demanded in a low voice that sounded almost dangerous.

"All right, I promise since this means so much to you", Remus said slightly taken aback. "I promise not to speak about what I heard. Nor will I write letters or do any other thing to let people know what you and your friends are up to."

"You don't sound as if you were taking this seriously." Harry was annoyed and didn't bother to conceal it. "This _is_ serious, deadly serious."

"I was already half asleep when I thought I heard you. On waking up this morning, I persuaded myself that I had dreamt. Well, I was obviously mistaken," Remus said giving the Extendable Ear a flick with his forefinger. He was not simply serious; he was concerned. "Stop wasting your time thinking up such theories. Of course, he acts as if he were a soulless bastard – but, Harry, _seven_ pieces? Who is going to believe this?"

"You don't?"

Remus Lupin shook his head.

"Good," said Harry. "That's fine with me. Because I'm not going to discuss these so-called theories with you or anyone else."

There was a sudden change in Remus' face. The concern became genuine fear. "Do you have proof?" he whispered.

"You mean other proof than the word of a deluded old man who couldn't tell friend from foe anymore?"

"Harry!"

"I've heard enough of this nonsense over the past few weeks: How he had lost his touch, how it was all his own fault... even members of the Order think this way!"

"Well, _I don't_. For me, Dumbledore's word has always been good enough," Remus said earnestly, "and if mine is good enough for you, you shall have it. I swear upon my honour as a wizard not to tell anyone what I accidentally heard last night."

"Thanks," Harry said with relief. "I'm sorry for being so rude, but Professor Dumbledore made me promise to tell no-one except Ron and Hermione. Not even McGonagall was to know."

"I think I do understand why he saw it necessary to keep your search a secret." Remus sat down at the table and motioned for Harry to join him. "Besides, Harry, many a wizard wouldn't give a Knut for the word of a werewolf. – May I ask you a favour?"

"What kind of favour?" Harry said suspiciously.

"Tell me, in minute detail, what you witnessed on that tower. Tell me what you saw, Harry, not what you felt."

Though the request came quite unexpectedly, Harry found himself willing to talk. Nobody had asked for details so far and separating his memory of what had happened from emotions seemed a good idea, too. Being livid with rage made you vulnerable, especially when you were facing a cunning bastard like Snape.

He took the chair next to Remus and began to describe the events of the night Albus Dumbledore was murdered. Starting at the point he had put on his Invisibility Cloak, he depicted the Dark Mark hovering over the castle, the flight on the borrowed brooms, the deserted ramparts of the Astronomy Tower, Malfoy, the Death Eaters. He took his time to recall every movement, every gesture, and every word as accurately as possible. By the time he came to Snape's part, almost an hour had passed.

"He said something like 'Let's get out of here'," he finished. "I don't remember the exact words because in the same instant I noticed that I could move again. I just knew then that Dumbledore was dead – the spell he'd put on me was broken."

Remus Lupin shook his head ever so slightly.

"Don't you believe me?" Harry was more astonished than hurt.

"I believe you," Remus assured him. "You've told me faithfully what you saw. However, I have some doubt that what you saw and heard is what really happened."

Harry gave him a blank stare.

"Somehow, the whole story makes no sense. Look, you were in a strategically perfect position at the top of the stairs: The Death Eaters could attack you only one at a time. There should have been no problem in simply stunning them – Dumbledore being weak or not. He was able to stun you. Besides, we were at the bottom of the stairs, so we had them practically in a trap."

"You forget that Snape was at _your_ back!"

"Well, that's another thing I don't get into my head. What was Minerva thinking when she called for him to join an open battle between the Order and Death Eaters?"

"She was probably thinking of several hundred students who needed protection."

"Probably. There was Greyback, I know..." Remus Lupin said with barely suppressed revulsion. "But still, calling Snape was the sure way to blow his cover."

"Drop his bloody mask you mean!"

"His mask or his cover, I'm afraid you've hit the point there," Remus sighed. "You can't figure out what is going on in other people's minds unless you are a skilled Legilimens. Unfortunately, I've never been any good at Legilimency."

At this moment, Hermione stormed into the kitchen. Excited, she slapped a book down in front of Harry. "There," she gasped out of breath, "I've found this in the attic."

"That's an ordinary text book," Harry said puzzled. "Charms, fifth year."

He got no other response than a meaningful look. "Wait," he called as the girl turned to leave. "Has this something to do with what we talked about last night?"

Hermione merely shrugged.

"Sit down," Harry said. "He knows."

"Harry is not to blame," Remus said quickly as he noticed Hermione's expression. "He only learned less than an hour ago that I got accidentally involved in your search for certain items."

Hermione looked hard at the man. Then she opened the book and pointed to the initials that were written on the first page: R.A.B.

"Perhaps you can help us, Remus," she said in a businesslike manner. "Do you happen to know what was the middle name of Sirius' brother?"

"I do. It was a rather pretentious one: Agathokles."

"Regulus Agathokles Black," Harry murmured. The initials fitted but had the young man been skilled enough to do what Albus Dumbledore only accomplished with the utmost difficulty? _One alone could not have done it..._

"Maybe he had someone to assist him," Hermione said as if she'd read his thoughts.

_An enchantment will have been placed upon this boat so that only one wizard at a time will be able to sail in it_. Slowly, Harry shook his head. A pause ensued as he pondered Regulus' chances of outwitting Voldemort.

"The strange thing is, Sirius never found out how his brother died," Remus broke the silence. "He just assumed that Voldemort had sent two or three of his minions to kill him. However, nobody knew anything definite."

Hermione was about to answer when Ron walked in. His face was glowing with pride.

"You won't guess what happened," he announced. "Ginny is getting a scholarship for Beauxbatons!"

"A scholarship?" Hermione cried. "On what basis?"

Ron shrugged. "Well, good marks, stuff like that."

Hermione's brow furrowed.

"There's been talk the ministry has a fund to support talented students from families who are not too well-to-do," Remus said calmly. "I wonder, Hermione, could your parents afford the fee if you wanted to go to Beauxbatons?"

"Of course," the girl replied at once. "They would only have to change the necessary amount at Gringotts... oh, I see."

"Well, Mum reckons they just did owe Dad a favour," Ron said brightly. "And I'm glad they didn't make an offer to me, too. Mum would insist that I 'grab the extraordinary opportunity' instead of going with you, Harry. It's all right for Ginny, though. She's smart enough. Mum's already asked Fleur to teach her French. Imagine I had to learn a foreign language within a week's time... the thought alone makes me shudder."

Harry bit back a smile and Hermione hastened to brief Ron about their discovery concerning the possible identity of R.A.B., thus reminding herself why she didn't complete her education in Beauxbatons.

Ron's grin became wider the longer she spoke.

"You're brilliant, Hermione," he said beaming. "We should have thought earlier of the stupid locket we found here, right?"

The words hit Harry like a blow of a Hungarian Horntail. He saw Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and himself emptying the glass-fronted cabinets in the drawing-room two years ago. He saw the ancient seals, the musical box that had tried to sing them to sleep, the creepy pair of tweezers – and the heavy locket that none of them could open. Sirius had thrown it into the sack along with the rest of the old junk. If this had been the very locket for which Dumbledore had drunk nine goblets of sheer poison, they had no chance of ever finding it again. Their mission was doomed. Voldemort would live forever and ever...

"Harry, are you alright?"

"No, not if you're right, mate. Not, if we had the bloody thing here, in this house – and threw it away!"

"Nope. Kreacher nicked it."

"Sure?"

"I saw it when Hermione put the quilt into his smelly den."

Harry rose to his feet. He had to know.

The door to the cupboard opposite the pantry was locked, however.

When he saw Harry's futile and increasingly impatient attempts of opening the door with Alohomora spells, Remus said: "Kreacher put a security charm on his room last year because Molly had tried to clean in there. Obviously, it's still working and I'm afraid I'm not very familiar with the brand of magic used by elves."

Harry was certain he knew absolutely nothing about this special kind of magic and Hermione had to admit to her lack of knowledge, too. After a short discussion, Harry decided to call the elf. Technically, Kreacher was his property and, therefore, unable to disobey direct orders.

With a loud _crack_ a filthy creature appeared in the middle of the kitchen. Flinging himself into a ridiculously low bow, the elf whimpered: "Master has called?"

"Indeed, I have," Harry stated, his tone very firm and his posture as haughty as he could manage. "Bring me the locket which was formerly stored in one of the glass-fronted cabinets in the drawing-room."

The elf glared at him.

"I meant _now_."

Kreacher's ugly features became contorted with the inward struggle he fought. He wanted nothing more than to refuse, but the ancient bondage that forced his race into slavery was stronger. Muttering under his breath, he dragged himself across the floor and into the corner, where he fumbled at the door for a moment or two. With a sudden movement, he slipped through the narrowest of gaps into the room.

They could hear him rummaging around but it proved to be impossible to open the door an inch further. All they could see through the small slit was the old-fashioned boiler. There were repeated creaks like floor-boards being removed alternating with series of loud bangs as if someone was hammering ferociously on the pipes.

Hope and doubt battled in Harry's chest. The locket Ron had seen could be a useless piece of tarnished metal, some petty heirloom of the Black family. On the other hand, didn't Voldemort teach Dark Arts to his Death Eaters? Perhaps Regulus had been able to perform spells, which were utterly unknown to ordinary wizards...

Kreacher certainly took his time to emerge again. He slammed the door shut behind him with force. His tiny fist clutched a silvery object.

"Put it on the table and then stand back," Harry ordered him.

His face a mask of hatred, the elf did as he was told.

Harry needed no more than a glance – there was the engraved 'S', there was the locket he had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve. There, on the kitchen table, lay a Horcrux.

The realisation almost made him dizzy. He sank down on a chair and sighed: "Ron, _you_ are brilliant."

"Harry," Hermione cut in before Ron could open his mouth, "wouldn't it be appropriate to thank Kreacher for his help and allow him to go back?"

"Of course," Harry said rising again. "Kreacher, I expect my orders being followed without delay and without questioning. Is this clear enough for you?"

"Yes, Master," Kreacher croaked.

"I forbid you to inform anybody in any way about your visit here today. You're not allowed to tell whom you saw here, what you did or what I wanted you to do. Understood?"

"Perfectly, Master."

"Good. Now I want you to go back to Hogwarts and work in the kitchens there with the other house-elves."

"As you wish," Kreacher replied with fake devotion. Bowing, he muttered there weren't many elves left anymore in Hogwarts and the pathetic squib the only one to work for. Harry was too excited to pay much attention to the elf, who soon vanished with the usual _crack._

"Well, that was quite a piece of cake," Ron grinned with palpable satisfaction. "What's next?"

"We have to destroy it," Harry said. "I wish I knew how."

Two days later, Remus Lupin presented Hermione with an old tome bound in dragon hide. Where and how he had procured it he refused to tell.

The book contained such an amount of knowledge about Dark Arts one could have thought Lord Voldemort himself had written it had it not clearly been several hundred years old. Hermione had never studied a book more eagerly. After a fortnight, she knew the chapters concerning Horcruxes by heart.

Harry liked what she explained to him: Unlike the creation of a Horcrux, the destruction of one was, according to the ancient author, no big deal. A few simple spells did the trick.

"In all probability, Professor Dumbledore injured himself obtaining Slytherin's ring, not destroying it," she said. "Since a Horcrux, once it has fallen into the wrong hands – or should I rather say into the right ones – can be undone so easily, their owner will protect it with the most powerful enchantments."

"Yes, Dumbledore spoke about terrible curses," Harry confirmed. "And in the cave, there were hundreds of Inferi... But that's not our trouble now. We have the locket. Let's go upstairs to Buckbeak's old room and put an end to it!"

Hermione shook her head. "Not here, Harry. The book recommends stone circles to avoid contamination in case the sequence of spells isn't completed in time and the Horcrux blows up. Besides, there are too many people here. You don't want onlookers, do you?

Harry agreed. He wasn't inclined to take any chances at this early point of the mission and suggested, therefore, to leave for Godric's Hollow.

The once picturesque home of Harry's parents was now not much more than a ruin. The garden fence had broken down years ago, thus allowing animals to wander in from the nearby forest. Actually, it was hard to tell where the garden ended and the woods began. Rowan and birch trees grew ten feet high already in the former pumpkin beds; brambles grew practically everywhere.

Though a saddening sight, the derelict, far-off place was perfect for their purpose.

They spent the whole afternoon collecting stones. They needed many of them.

At sunset, Harry put the locket in the middle of a patch of grassland. Around it, they erected concentric stone circles that gradually increased in both diameter and the size of stones. Enchantments carefully placed by Hermione secured the whole area against any random discharge of magic. Not the tiniest fragment of Voldemort's dispersed soul should have the opportunity of being blown away by a sudden gust of air.

Around five in the morning, they rolled the last boulder into position.

"This will be my birthday celebration," Hermione said solemnly.

"T-today?" Ron stammered. "I thought it was... I mean... I forgot..."

A big, reassuring smile spread out on Hermione's tired face. "You know," she said softly, "there _will_ be birthdays with bouquets and cakes and candles. Right now, we have more important things to do."

"Err... right," Ron mumbled and trudged off to the old tool shed.

Harry and the girl followed. The shed would provide some shelter in case anything went wrong.

"Let's get it over," Harry said. He sounded considerably less nervous than he felt. He was about to wipe out one seventh – another seventh – of Voldemort's soul. Years back, in the Chamber of Secrets he had acted on impulse. Without thinking, without considering, he had seized the Basilisk fang and plunged it straight into the diary. This time he knew what he was doing; this time he knew what was at stake.

"Diffindo!" he exclaimed. Silently, he counted to eleven before he continued with the next part, a Dispersing Curse.

A split second later – the spell had barely left Harry's mouth – a small figure dashed out from the bushes, jumped over the boulders of the outermost circle, fell, scrambled up with vigour and ran for the very centre.

There was no use in screaming for Kreacher to come back. He couldn't leave the enchanted circles before the Horcrux was annihilated. Nothing could. And completing the sequence of spells would destroy everything within the innermost ring, which was exactly where Kreacher stood clutching the cloven locket to his chest.

"Kreacher won't never allow Potter to destroy Salazar Slytherin's belongings!" he wailed stomping his gnarled feet. "He won't, won't, won't..."

"Stand back!" Harry yelled. Maybe the elf had a chance if he was a few steps away. "This is an order! Go!"

Kreacher couldn't help but obey his master's command. More exactly, he tried to obey. The locket, however, which he still held tightly to his chest, jerked him back into the middle.

"Drop the bloody thing!" Harry screamed. He glanced at Ron's panic-stricken face. They were running out of time. The low hum that emanated from the broken Horcrux grew louder by the second. Explosion was imminent. "Do it!" he bellowed.

Kreacher let go of the locket, crawled back slowly, exasperatingly slowly, and lunged forward again. Harry couldn't stop anymore. He was already shouting the words of the third and final spell with all his passion and at the top of his voice.

Hermione gave a strangled sob. Then there was silence.

Harry stared at the single foot that lay between the stones. Hadn't he ordered the elf to go to Hogwarts? The wretched creature had had no business being here! Yet, he felt guilty: He'd killed Kreacher. He definitely had not meant to, but the elf was dead.

"At least, he's got a really posh tomb," Ron said at length. "Eleven stone circles are quite something for a house-elf."

Hermione struggled to hold back her tears and lost. "I didn't anticipate anybody to go _in_..." she sobbed out. "I should have used Repelling Charms, too."

"Nobody is blaming you," Harry murmured softly.

Ron had more effective ways of consoling the girl. He pulled her into his arms, ran his fingers through her thick hair and asked a question that aimed at her intellect: "Anyway, how did he know the locket was Slytherin's? We didn't tell him, did we?"

While Hermione whispered muffled words into Ron's chest, Harry raised his wand and Vanished the lone limb that was left of Kreacher. Perhaps Regulus, who had surely been very weak after drinking all that poison, had charged the family's house-elf with guarding the locket, Harry mused._ I face death... I intend to destroy it as soon as I can_...

Another thought struck him. _I do not think you will count, Harry: you are under age and unqualified... I think it unlikely that your powers will register compared to mine_.

This was the solution: Regulus had used Kreacher, knowing that the elf's magical powers wouldn't register compared to those of a regular Death Eater!

Miles and miles away, Draco Malfoy lay on his camp bed thinking nothing and doing nothing. The maddening fear of the first few days had gradually subsided when nobody came to fetch him. It was replaced with some sort of stupor.

Emotionally exhausted as he was, he had sunken deeper and deeper into apathy. He cared about nothing. He neglected himself until he looked, with his scruffy beard and matted hair, like a blonde miniature version of Hagrid. Sometimes he didn't manage to get up when Dobby told him to come and eat. The only thing that occasionally reminded him of being alive was an excruciating pain in his left forearm.

Dobby was watching the boy anxiously. He needed to go on an errand. Winky had notified him a few hours ago that Kreacher had left Hogwarts without permission. He didn't know what the other elf was up to, but he had no doubt it was something foul. He had to warn Harry Potter, but he didn't dare to leave the Menhir as long as Draco Malfoy was awake.

No sooner had his charge drifted off to sleep than Dobby slipped out and raced to the edge of the forest. From there, he magicked himself to the place where Harry Potter currently stayed. Dobby always knew where Harry Potter was without having to think about it.

Harry Potter and his two friends, the nice redhead and the slightly dangerous girl, sat at a makeshift table in a sadly neglected garden. They were eating sandwiches, which they took from a large paper-bag.

Dobby sniffed. These sandwiches weren't too fresh. They smelt as if they'd been in the bag for twenty-four hours. Oh, how much he would like to attend to Harry Potter instead of watching over the young Mr Malfoy!

He heard the girl talk about her wish to learn more about the magic used by elves. She was indeed a bit dangerous. Elven magic usually went undetected by witches or wizards.

"I intend to open Kreacher's room as soon as possible. He might have stored other harmful objects there," she explained. "Besides, the boiler will need repair some day."

"But Kreacher is dead," Harry Potter replied. "So his charm doesn't work anymore."

The girl shook her abundance of curls. "There is no reason to believe an enchantment ended automatically with its caster's death."

"Of course not," the redhead said. "Look, nobody can reverse the Sticking Charm that Sirius' mother used to glue her portrait to the wall. And she's been dead for years."

"I thought that was a permanent one."

"Whatever. It still holds though she's dead. Bill should have a look at it. He's a professional curse breaker."

The girl nodded approvingly. "Ron is right. Spells can last for seconds or for millennia, regardless whether the person who performed them is alive. Muggle Repelling Charms, for example, have to be renewed frequently. The Sorting Hat, on the other hand, was charmed in the time of the founders and it still works without a flaw."

"What about Stunning Spells?" Harry Potter asked. His hand holding the sandwich hung motionless in the air.

"Without treatment they normally last six to seven hours," the girl told him. "But back to our topic – we have to find out how Kreacher's magic can be reversed."

While Harry Potter looked very thoughtfully at his sandwich, Dobby crept noiselessly back into the woods. He didn't have to warn Harry Potter anymore. Kreacher was dead and already suspected of having done some mischief.

As quickly as he could, Dobby went back to the Menhir. Spells didn't cease to work when the wizard who cast them died. A promise given to a now dead man didn't cease to bind you, either.

-----------------------

Author's note: I thank duj and hopgoblen for beta-reading. You're great.


	5. Solstice

Chapter five

Solstice

- - - - - - -

"You sure it's here?"

Ron shivered, and Harry knew it wasn't only from the cold.

"This is the place marked on the map," Hermione insisted. Harry simply nodded.

The three friends were spending most of their time searching for the still missing Horcruxes. Since they couldn't investigate openly, Harry kept asking people whether they had seen a certain enchanted mirror that had been one of Sirius' keepsakes to remind him of Harry's father. His enquiries met with sympathy rather than suspicion, especially because nobody but Harry knew what had happened to said mirror. The usual suggestion to follow the trail of things Mundungus Fletcher had stolen from Grimmauld Place provided a welcome excuse for continually poking around in odd places. Unfortunately, week after week had passed without result.

Recently, they had learned that the late Mundungus had been reckless enough to do business with Death Eaters. The man had sold classified potion ingredients to Avery, an Invisibility Cloak to Bellatrix Lestrange, and, over the years, probably a whole cartload of gems, rings, and other antiques of questionable origin to the Malfoys. After months of futile efforts, Harry was hoping against hope among the treasures the wealthy wizards had collected might be a golden cup with two finely wrought handles and an engraved badger on it. He was plainly running out of ideas.

Three nights ago, he, Ron and Hermione had broken into the deserted mansion of the Malfoys. They hadn't been the first to do so. All magic once set to protect the grounds had long since been disabled. The building was wrecked and ransacked; everything of any value was apparently gone. However, they had discovered a magical map painted on the inside of a damaged wardrobe, a map that showed the whereabouts of several other, smaller estates owned by the Malfoy family.

"The cottage over there," Hermione said, pointing across the street, "looks uninhabited."

"All the better for us if nobody's home," Ron muttered.

"Let's go," Harry said, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

Their wands drawn, Ron and Hermione followed him through the darkness. The timing was perfect – all Muggles in the vicinity were most likely busy with decorating trees and wrapping gifts.

The cottage was empty except for dirt and – much to Ron's dismay – cobwebs.

Hermione immediately proceeded to check for curses and magical safeguards. Harry joined her using a variety of helpful tricks Tonks had taught them.

Ron half-heartedly inspected a few dusty webs near the door for bad spells.

"There!" he whispered all at once. "Didn't you hear that?"

'Hear what?' Harry thought with an inward sigh. 'Spiders conversing about ganging up on you, mate?' However, he stopped and listened intently.

There _was_ a noise. A muted groan came from the second floor.

"Can that be _him_?" Ron, suddenly as pale as moonlight, breathed.

"Sure," Harry said dryly. "Voldemort is hiding upstairs, waiting for just a better chance to get me."

Ron gave him a hurt look.

"Besides," Harry added and turned towards the stairs, "he wouldn't moan like this."

Hermione made a grab for his arm.

"That could be a trap! He knows you'll always run to people's rescue without paying any attention to dangers along the way!"

"You think the moaning is a charm to lure us upstairs?"

"Could be," she said earnestly. "Could very well be. I wouldn't put it past him. Would you?"

Harry relented. They made their way up to the second floor scanning, meticulously every inch of stone and woodwork for concealed magic.

Finally, they stood over a hunched, whimpering figure.

"What happened to you?" Hermione asked softly.

The figure lifted her head with visible difficulty. The woman's face was blackened and so were her hands.

"You're too late," she whispered with burnt lips. "I did it."

"What did you do, Mrs Malfoy?" Hermione asked, bending down. "Please tell me, what did you do?"

Narcissa Malfoy stared past Hermione, obviously not able to see her.

"Destroyed it... destroyed your precious Horcrux."

"You _did_?" Ron burst out.

"I hate you..." sobbed Narcissa Malfoy while Hermione murmured pain-killing medi-charms. "I trusted you with my son's life. You promised me... you filthy, mud-blooded bastard..."

"Who is she talking to?" Ron inquired of Harry.

"No idea. And I don't give a damn, either."

Harry had just spotted a faint glow on the edge of one of the small, odd objects that lay scattered on the floor. He crouched down to have a closer look. There were polished bits of wood finely etched with a pattern of feathers, two wooden claws and a beak. And something was wrong.

"Hermione," he said urgently, "some of these pieces are smouldering somehow."

The girl sprang up in alarm.

"Stand back!" she exclaimed after a quick check. "It's reacting to our presence."

Even as she spoke, another fragment lit up, a disk-like piece of wood, which in all probability had served as the pedestal of a small sculpture. The flames illuminated two letters that were carved into it: R. R.

_I cannot answer for whether he ever managed to find anything of Ravenclaw's... Four objects from the four founders would have exerted a powerful pull over Voldemort's imagination._

"Did Rowena Ravenclaw own a statuette of a raven?" Harry wondered aloud. "Something like this one here?"

"Of course, she did," came Hermione's instant reply. "She crafted it herself out of the uppermost branch of the Magic Elm of Wychworth. The Raven was said to have great magical power."

"Was said?"

"In the early sixties, an exchange student from Italy stole it. She was caught and arrested within an hour, but the Raven has never been retrieved," Hermione answered, adding under her breath, "Will you ever get around to reading _Hogwarts, A History_?"

Harry bit his lip. If the broken statuette was a Horcrux – and it seemed not at all unlikely to him that this was the fact – he had to make sure, the wretched thing was utterly destroyed and absolutely useless to Voldemort. Merely setting fire to it was not enough.

"Mrs Malfoy, can you hear me?" he asked. "Did you complete the destruction sequence? Can you tell me?"

"I doubt there is any use in asking her," Hermione said quietly. "Our safest option is an augmented Annihilation Curse, one that doesn't depend on what has been done or not been done before."

Harry scowled at the remains of the Raven. The fire had spread further.

"Okay. Let's carry Mrs Malfoy outside and then-" he broke off in mid-sentence since his words were suddenly accompanied by a low hum emanating from the burning pieces. "Get out!" he yelled. "It's blowing up!"

Hermione turned. Ron followed suit but, acting on impulse, stopped short the very next second. Sounding surprised about his own words, he said, "We can't let her lie here dying like this..."

Harry was less surprised. The memory of Molly Weasley crying at Charlie's and her husband's funerals was still very fresh. He knew how the losses and even more his mother's grief had affected his friend, although Ron did his best not to let it show.

"Come on, Ron!" Hermione cried, her voice thick with barely suppressed emotion. "She's beyond help!"

"I mean, she's a Malfoy," Ron objected as Hermione propelled him down the stairs, "but still..."

"Shut up and run!" Harry shouted. Pointing his wand at Narcissa Malfoy, he cast a Hovering Charm.

They were in the open field and about a hundred yards away when they heard the detonation. Glancing back over his shoulder, Harry caught a glimpse of a huge, greenish cloud resembling He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, aka Lord Voldemort, aka Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"Run on!" Hermione yelled frantically. "Don't look back!"

They ran as fast as they could while steering a person floating unsteadily in the air. Eventually, they reached a small patch of shrubs and dwarf-pines where they lowered Narcissa Malfoy hurriedly to the frozen ground.

"On count of three," Harry panted.

Their wands raised, he and Hermione turned back, scanting in unison: "Decontamium Rigorosa!" They had to repeat the spell seven times before the last trace of eerie green glow vanished.

"That was close," Hermione whispered. Despite the cold, sweat stood on her forehead.

"But we did it," Harry said plainly.

Not taking any trouble to conceal the magnitude of his relief, Ron slumped down next to Narcissa Malfoy.

None of them paid much attention to the fire sirens that started wailing in the distance. There was no harm now in letting Muggle fire brigades deal with the still roaring fire. All magic that had been in the area was extinct.

"Is there anything we can do for Mrs Malfoy?" Harry asked. "Take her secretly to St Mungo's perhaps?"

"She is dying. Taking her to hospital won't make any difference," Hermione said sadly. "I am aware that Professor Dumbledore's hand looked the same last year but I do not know how he delayed the curse. It can't be stopped, only slowed down. A special potion you have to take at least once every day might work. But, Harry, even if somebody besides Snape knew how to brew it up, it would be too late for her."

"Are you suggesting the wicked traitor provided Dumbledore with a healing potion day after day just to murder him in the end?" Harry snapped angrily.

"Lay off," Hermione rebuked him. "This is hardly the moment to discuss Snape again!"

Narcissa Malfoy stirred.

"Snape?" she whispered. "Are you still here?"

There was a moment of silence. Then Ron asked cautiously: "What do you want of him?"

"You want to know how, don't you?... I followed you. You are using the manor. _My_ manor, where I don't dare live anymore for fear of the Dark Lord's wrath. I followed you to your stinking hideout... to the place where you kept the other part of your soul hidden. Oh, there was only one way you could have broken an Unbreakable Vow and survived... You didn't help my poor Draco. You allowed him to be killed. The moment you gave me your word you knew you weren't going to keep it, didn't you? I should have listened to Bellatrix... But now you're again as mortal as any man. I destroyed your Horcrux... I don't mind dying – I've avenged my son's death on you."

"There's no proof your son is dead. No-one has found his body so far," Ron interrupted her in an almost gentle tone. "He's just missing. He might be hiding somewhere. He's always been a cunning git. – Err, I mean..." He blushed. Whether this was because of his ill choice of words or because he tried to console his old enemy's mother in the first place, he didn't know himself.

"Don't pretend you care... You care for nobody but yourself. I hope they'll kill you soon," continued Mrs Malfoy with perceptible difficulty. "Bellatrix'll do it for me... She'll revel in finishing you off, Snape."

"I'm not Snape! I'm Ronald Weasley."

"Weasley?" Narcissa Malfoy murmured. "The clerk from the Ministry? I thought you were dead... Anyway, take care. The Lord is getting rid of the pure-bloods now..."

Being so unexpectedly reminded of his father's death made Ron shudder. Hermione quickly knelt beside him and put her arms around him. Harry, too, felt a lump in his throat.

Narcissa Malfoy was mumbling names, names of people who, according to rumours or official reports, had died under strange circumstances or, in some cases, disappeared without a trace in the course of the last few months. Most of them had been known Death Eaters and, as far as Harry could tell, pure-bloods. Both Tonks and Shacklebolt maintained that no Auror had had a hand in the incidences.

_I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years... I want thirteen years' repayment before I forgive you._

Draco's name was the last one the woman murmured. A strangled sob followed.

Harry softly repeated the palliative charm he'd heard Hermione using.

He contemplated the sad irony of the woman's misapprehension while he watched her pass away. Either her son was still alive or Snape did indeed possess a Horcrux – one she did not destroy. The latter thought drove an icy chill down Harry's spine.

They dug a six feet deep hole, lowered the body into it and put the frozen soil back. All was done in silence, uttering no other word than the necessary spells.

After they had finished, they stood around a bit awkwardly, wondering whether or not something solemn should be said.

Eventually, Hermione straightened herself up and spoke, "I promise to come back as soon as the war is over and put a headstone here."

She waved her wand in an expansive gesture and promptly snow started to fall, hiding the freshly made grave from sight.

- - - - -

Less than ten miles away, Draco lay on his camp bed and read. He knew no more about his mother's fate than he knew what time of day it was outside his cave. In fact, he didn't even know the time of the year. He had lost track long ago.

For a while, he had managed to spend his days and weeks in a state of semi-consciousness. Desperately refusing to acknowledge his situation, he had almost succeeded in avoiding thinking at all.

The fragile condition of nearly complete mental inactivity had been interrupted, though, as often as the Dark Lord summoned his followers. The calls had become more and more frequent, and since Draco couldn't keep his mind comfortably blank while the Mark on his arm burned, he had been forced to find another, more dependable means to divert himself from reality.

A solution had presented itself in the form of several hundred, neatly stacked books. As long as he read, he didn't have to think about who he was or what he had done.

At first, he hadn't chosen his books. Any topic was welcome. He'd read about Gobstones, magical plants, potions, demons, and astronomy. He had devoured a rather tattered tome about the goblin wars, which, intriguingly, was written from the goblins' point of view.

Then he had picked up a book about a Muggle girl who accidentally crossed an enchanted barrier. Falling down a rabbit hole, she emerged in what appeared to be a holiday resort peopled with crazed wizard folk including a number of highly unusual Animagi. Though he had wondered whether Muggles truly could visit any part of the wizarding world, he'd continued reading because the story differed so much from common textbooks. He'd almost enjoyed himself until a female character called Queen of Hearts appeared who reminded him unpleasantly of his aunt. He had put the book away and never touched it again.

The book Draco was currently reading – an elaborate family saga – had just started to annoy him, too: The narrator's husband had impregnated a French au-pair girl and reading about the affair's sordid details triggered Draco's memory of him standing on platform nine and three quarters for the first time.

_I trust you will miss your little French girls._

The remark had never made much sense to him because his mother hadn't addressed him but his father, who nonchalantly had changed the subject.

He closed the book and put it aside.

There had always been au-pair girls in the manor before he went to Hogwarts. Their duty had been to teach him refined manners, dancing, choosing his clothes, and, of course, their language. The young witches were replaced with another one as often as his father was disappointed with the range of Draco's French vocabulary or clumsy dancing steps. Almost every night, the girls had to report the boy's progress. He recalled them going into his father's study. They stayed in there discussing his education often for an hour or longer. At least, this was what he had been told and what he had believed.

Hearing Dobby doing the dishes across the room, he turned his face to the wall because he was on the verge of tears as he remembered the disgusted looks on his mother's face and the contempt with which she usually had treated the foreign girls.

His father, the idol of his childhood, had cheated on his mother. Habitually.


	6. Discoveries

By mid-February, both Draco and Dobby had mastered the correct use of a new word. This was "I" in the elf's case and "please" in Draco's. Both had been severely startled hearing the other one speak it for the first time.

As a matter of fact, using these two little words had more effect on their relationship than any amount of magic could ever have provided. Draco realised that Dobby was actually a sentient being; Dobby saw, for the first time in months, a glimmer of hope that his efforts might not entirely be wasted.

Draco still spent most part of the day reading. The elf never bothered to check what books he chose or whether he took notes. He simply brought him quill, ink, and parchment, announced when it was time for a lunch break or, in the evening hours before dinner, reminded him to go for a swim.

Discovering the swimming pool had absolutely floored Draco. What looked like a large basin surrounded by potted plants, became a deep pool twenty yards in diameter once you stepped in. The plants transformed into grown trees and their pots into a solid, seven feet high wall. To round off the idyll, a light-blue sky stretched over the scenery.

Draco hoisted himself onto the tiny patch of grass that was situated at the far side of the pool. Immediately, he felt the warmth of the sun on his wet skin. From here, he could actually _see_ the sun, which always stood fixed in the same position.

The fact that the sun never moved told Draco he was still inside the cave. The pool was no exit but a Captured Moment, an enjoyable afternoon someone had preserved by means of magic. According to an old book he had found, one minute could be stretched to days or months, even to decades. The proper spell done with skill and sufficient fervour could make a split second last for eternity – in theory. The book didn't give any incantation. Another one, the _All Topic Encyclopaedia_ edited by Nicolas Flamel, said the Preserving Charm had been lost centuries ago.

As often as Draco sat on the little, grass-covered bit of shore, he wondered who had created this curious place. The grandeur of the bathroom contrasted in high degree with the slapdash appearance of the main cave, which looked like it had been made in a great hurry. The cupboard gave access to a storage room. Though the entrance was designed for a house-elf – Draco had to crawl on all fours – the room was pretty large and kept refilling itself with a vast variety of foods. The biggest marvel, however, was the swimming pool. Either it was at least nearly a thousand years old, or Dumbledore had performed a spell that not even his learned pal Flamel did know. Draco supposed the two men had been buddies because the encyclopaedia, Flamel's gift for _his dear young friend's_ one hundred and twentieth birthday, bore a hand-written preamble brimming with affection.

There were probably three times more questions in the world than answers, Draco thought as he slipped back into the water. Leisurely, he swam a few more rounds in the circular pool. A fortnight of regular swimming had already done wonders for his weakened body.

"Starvation and lack of exercise," Dobby had said to explain Draco's feeble condition.

Draco found starving hard to believe. The elf's cooking was good – so why hadn't he eaten? And how long had he been here? Dobby refused to tell him, and he knew from experience that the elf was decidedly deaf to yells or threats, especially with him having no wand to carry out the latter. Pleading elicited sometimes kinder words, but never an answer.

The smell of fried onions drifted across the water. Draco got out and dressed quickly.

He sat down at the table while Dobby brought soup and some crusty bread. When he reached for a slice, he accidentally knocked his pumpkin juice over. The glass broke, and Draco, instinctively making a grab for it, injured himself. Or he didn't. The pain was exactly that of a glass shard cutting into flesh, but when he, startled, looked at his hand he saw no cut and not a single drop of blood.

This was odd. Carefully, he touched another one of the shards with his left forefinger and increased the pressure until it hurt. Again, no cut, no blood.

Dobby had swiftly run for a towel and a pair of pincers. Draco watched him using the pincers to pick up the small splinters.

An intriguing idea formed in his mind.

He walked over to the kitchen area, selected a knife and cautiously probed the edge. It hurt almost immediately. But with his Dark Mark burning ever so often, Draco had developed a certain tolerance toward pain. He took a deep breath and ran a finger with one fast movement along the length of the blade. He gasped.

"What are you doing?" Dobby screeched, hastening toward the boy.

Draco didn't answer. Panting, he waited for the pain to fade away. His finger hurt like hell though there was not even a scratch in the skin.

"What are you doing?" Dobby repeated bewildered.

"Nothing," Draco muttered.

He dashed into the bathroom, seized the shaving kit, removed the razor blade and tried it on his hand. It went right through the flesh. Yet the result was the same as before – no damage, no blood, just pain.

"What are you doing, young Mister Malfoy?" Dobby asked for the third time.

"Dobby, who made this place?"

"I do not know. And I would not say, if I knew."

Draco nodded with a sigh. Repeating the question would be fruitless, as usual."Dobby, please, who made all the sharp things suicide-proof?" he asked instead.

"Professor Dumbledore said I was to make sure you wouldn't get hurt."

"_You_ put a spell on the knives and other things?"

Dobby shrugged his little shoulders.

"Does it matter?" he said, walked away, and disappeared into the cupboard.

Draco sat down on his bed.

Indeed, did it matter? Someone was determined to keep him alive. But what kind of life did he have to expect?

- - - - -

"We found it," Harry announced, sitting down opposite Remus Lupin.

"Yeah, we did," said Ron, who had managed to squeeze himself next to Hermione on the narrow bench in Lupin's kitchen. "The only trouble is we can't get our hands on the bloody thing. He's protected it with all sorts of nasty spells and an Age Line."

Remus seemed somewhat puzzled.

"Didn't you say this morning you wanted to visit Hagrid?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. We dropped in on Hagrid for half an hour to have an excuse for going to Hogwarts."

"You found _it_ at Hogwarts?" Remus said, disbelief plainly written on his face.

"At Hogwarts," Harry confirmed.

"Right under Albus' crooked nose... The cheek of it!" Remus muttered. "The school would have been the last place I'd have thought of..."

"I suppose that was the gist of it," Hermione said. "Voldemort probably assumed few people would ever guess."

"And how did you figure it out?"

"Well, we have searched all the likely places, haven't we? Borgin & Burkes, Hepzibah Smith's old house, the orphanage where he lived as a child, Riddle manor, and many, many more. Everything was in vain. So, I thought it was time to ask _Where wouldn't you look?_ and, without hesitating for an instant, Ron answered _Hogwarts_."

Ron nodded with grim satisfaction.

"There was something else that made me suspicious," Hermione continued. "Harry once told me about an episode he had witnessed in Professor Dumbledore's Pensieve. Riddle came to apply for the position as Defence against the Dark Arts teacher."

"Yes, I've wondered about this, too," Harry interrupted her eagerly. "It was perfectly clear to him Dumbledore would never give him the job. So why did he come anyway? To jinx it? Well, he did that, too. But this was kind of obvious, too obvious. I thought for a while he might have been up to stealing something. But there I was wrong. He didn't take something away; he brought something into the school to hide it there."

"He doesn't need free access to the object at all times – as long as it stays safe _somewhere_, he's safe, too," Hermione explained. "In effect, our side has involuntarily been guarding his treasure ever since. That's a scheme worthy of a wicked mind like his."

"Right," Remus agreed, "The trophy room is full of cups and goblets of all sorts. One more wouldn't attract much attention. Things are often best hidden where everybody can see them."

"That's a shrewd idea." Hermione smiled. "But you must not forget Hepzibah's family. They and probably also a few other people knew what the cup looked like. In a public place like the trophy room, one of them might have spotted it sooner or later."

"No, Voldemort used the Room of Requirement," Harry said. "I've seen the room in this form only once before today, but it is just perfect for the purpose."

"So he thought he was clever, but you three outwitted him," Remus Lupin said with a hint of admiration.

"Not quite," Ron butted in. "It's not as if we could grab the thing off the shelf. There are spells. And a bloody Age Line."

"That's why we're telling you all this," Harry said earnestly. An Age Line could only be undone from the inside. To get there, evidently, you had to be old enough. "We'd like you to help us."

"I will. Would tomorrow morning be fine with you?"

Harry nodded. It was nearly eleven o'clock, and he, Ron and Hermione had spent hours and hours working their way down dozens of winding alleyways bordered by teetering piles of broken furniture, rummaging through countless drawers and boxes and peering into every dusty corner until they'd spied the Horcrux perched on top of a slime-covered bookcase.

"Yes, let's call it a day," he sighed. "And, Remus, thank you."

There was a soft rustle at the door, a key turned. A moment later – Remus' cabin didn't have a proper hall – Tonks stood in the kitchen. Her face was almost as grey as her hair.

"Good gracious, Dora!" Remus cried anxiously. He rose from his chair and gathered her in his arms in one, swift movement. "What happened?"

She didn't answer for several minutes. Slightly trembling, she lay in her husband's arms. Remus patted her gently on the back and whispered words of comfort.

Harry, Ron and Hermione felt they were unduly intruding into their friend's privacy. Exchanging brief looks, they silently agreed to retreat to the annexe – rather a little, wooden shed that leaned against the back of the kitchen – where they camped out when they stayed at Lupin's.

"We located Lucius this afternoon," Tonks said in a hoarse voice as Harry and Ron got to their feet. "Or rather, that which is left of him. Moody called it a _customary Death Eater execution_ – and grinned. Sometimes I wonder if he's not as insane as Voldemort."

"Lucius Malfoy," Remus said softly, "another pureblood dead."

"As dead as anyone can be... Merlin knows I never liked him. He was a nasty piece of work. But nobody, not even Lucius Malfoy, deserves to die like this. I'll never in my life forget the horrible sight..."

"Come on, sit down," Remus said, urging her to the chair Harry had just vacated. "I'll make you some tea."

"Voldemort won't be satisfied until the whole family is wiped out." Lifting her puffy eyes up at Hermione and Ron, Tonks added, "Lucius was my uncle by marriage. Mind you, not that I'm proud of such relations. His wife, Narcissa, is my mother's sister. Whether she has a Dark Mark herself I do not know. It wouldn't help her much; he's going to kill her anyway. Quick and painless, if she's lucky. I can only hope the sick bastard doesn't get a chance to do to her what he did to her husband."

"No, he won't," Ron said, checking himself too late.

"What do you mean?" Tonks said, suddenly alert.

Ron blushed. Before he could blab more, Hermine answered.

"Mrs Malfoy is dead," she said softly. "I helped to bury her."

"When?" Tonks breathed.

"Almost two months ago."

"And – _how_?"

Hermione hesitated.

"I mustn't tell you," she said eventually. "Circumstances leave me no choice in the matter. Please, don't think I wouldn't trust you enough." She broke off and made an apologetic gesture.

"I see," Tonks muttered.

"I think, however, it is safe to say her death wasn't entirely in vain. Her actions brought an advantage to our side."

"You're not trying to tell me Narcissa changed sides, are you?"

"Well no, I doubt that she had any intention to help us. All she wanted was revenge for her son."

"He's dead, too?" Tonks asked glumly.

"Mrs. Malfoy seemed to believe so," Hermione answered. "But she was in no condition to give a coherent account."

Tonks heaved a sigh. Turning around to face Remus, she asked, "Did _you_ know Narcissa was dead?"

"No, it's the first time I hear the news. I do know, however, that Hermione has assisted Hippocrates Smethwyck on several occasions," the man said while he poured tea through a sieve in order to hold the leaves back.

Harry thought it clever of Remus to mention the healer's name in the context, thus leading Tonks to a wrong conclusion without actually lying to her. He knew all too well how hard it was to lie to good friends.

"At least, she makes herself useful," Tonks mumbled and then, all of a sudden very much louder, addressed Harry, "unlike some other people."

'Here we go,' Harry thought, keeping quiet.

"And?" the woman demanded. As her misery changed to anger, her hair started to sprout nasty green spikes.

"Still chasing valuable old mirrors?"

Harry hadn't used the story for the past few weeks. What once was met with genuine sympathy was hardly tolerated now.

He understood why people grew increasingly impatient. Voldemort had wrecked the wizarding world to an extent that made normal life impossible. Death Eater gangs patrolled large areas, terrorising those who hadn't yet gone into hiding or fled the country altogether. Even the Auror Corps resembled more a group of underground fighters at this point than an official authority.

"Searching for the mirror is a pretext, so what?" he said, willing himself to sound calm. Being continually forced to make feeble excuses was the main reason why he slept rather in Lupin's shed than in his bed at Grimmauld Place. Here, he hadn't to endure reproachful looks or to answer questions all the time.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt says, you've cancelled lessons thrice within the last two weeks alone. So what are you doing the whole day?"

"If I went around broadcasting my doings, I could as well send Voldemort regular reports by owl," Harry said wearily. "Tonks, please, I _can't_ tell you. Or anyone else. So I have to make up excuses every time I'm not able to see Mr Shacklebolt or do whatever people want me to do."

"If it's so important, why don't you have anybody help you?"

"Well," Remus said, "People count on Harry to vanquish Voldemort. They may be right. They err, however, when they believe it was as simple as saying a dreaded two-word curse and be done with."

Tonks took the plump mug he held out to her, and said, "And you know more about this than you let on."

"Perhaps a little," Remus conceded. "Look, Dora, Harry has to go his way. In all probability, nobody will be able to remove his burden from his shoulders. He can't take any short cuts, either. Magic often requires its time or timing. There are potions you have to stew for twenty-two days, there are spells that will only work in a full moon night, there are magical plants you can only harvest during the week around spring equinox. Patience is an old wizarding virtue, and, most regrettably, almost forgotten these days."

"And while we wait, people are slaughtered," Tonks interrupted.

"I'm aware of this, and so is Harry. There is no call for accusing him of delaying on purpose."

Thoughtfully, Tonks drained the mug.

"In other words," she said at length, "Harry would be helped best, if Kingsley arranged for fewer training lessons."

"No, I need the lessons, " Harry said quickly. The last Horcrux was a living snake! "Especially the ones about fighting dangerous animals like, er... dragons or..."

Remus came to his aid, saying, "Like griffins or quintapeds, for instance. I would be truly surprised if Voldemort had not also command over a sizeable assortment of foul creatures besides Dementors."

Tonks nodded silently.

"Maybe I will have more time for the lessons soon," Harry said in an attempt to dissolve the still lingering tension. "We made some progress today. If we are lucky, we'll be a big step closer to defeating Voldemort at the same time tomorrow."

They weren't lucky. Remus proved to be too young to cross the Age Line.

Rather disappointed, the four of them sat, amidst the junk of a millennium, on the rickety remains of a large chesterfield and discussed their options.

"We have to be very careful to whom we reveal the secret," Hermione cautioned them. "The person has to be absolutely trustworthy."

"The person has to be old enough!" Ron said. "I hope that's not going to be one hundred and fifty. After all, old Dumbledore was the only one he ever feared!"

"An Age Line cannot exceed the age of the caster," Hermione pointed out.

"If this is so, we have to find out how old Voldemort was when he came to apply for the Defence job," Harry concluded.

"This might not be enough," Remus said. "You can't go further than your own age at the time you perform the spell, but you can attach a Linkage curse. In this case, the limit set by the Line will increase as you grow older."

"So therefore, we need somebody who is at least a few months older than Voldemort," Harry said. "And who is trustworthy, of course."

"I'd like to recommend such a person," Remus said. "An experienced witch I've known for quite some time. She graduated from Hogwarts two years before a certain Tom Riddle became Head Boy. If you're prepared to take the risk and trust her, I'll contact her this very afternoon."

"And who would that be?" asked Harry.

"Minerva McGonagall."


	7. Progress

Hearing Dobby's soft footsteps, Draco hastily threw his blanket over the lower part of his body. The smell would give him away even so, but he didn't care.

Dobby never commented on the stained sheets. Whether this was because of embarrassment or due to understanding, Draco was unable to decide. Sometimes, he suspected the elf left the cave for no other purpose than to allow him a small amount of privacy.

Draco spent these precious hours either crying or touching himself. Most times, he did both in varying order. Both brought him comfort. And both would have been resented by his father, most likely even punished. Therefore, both felt like mutiny. In a very feeble way, of course. He didn't fool himself.

Yet, it did feel good to do something in defiance of his father's rules. Earlier, back in school or as a kid, he had never had the guts to disobey. Only during the last few months at Hogwarts, when sheer panic got the better of him he'd given in to his anxiety and despair. The first time in this toilet, he'd hardly known what was happening to him. Then he had realised that tears helped – not to solve the problem but to discharge a portion of the pent-up emotions that hindered him from thinking a single straight thought.

When the ghost had asked him why he was crying, he had told her lies. A false name, fictitious reasons. The thought of word about his weakness getting around and reaching his father had been unbearable. All his childhood, he had dreaded nothing more than to disappoint the man. The viewpoint of others or their feelings, he had rarely found worth worrying about. Detention with McGonagall? Fine with him, as long as his father assured him calling Rolanda Hooch a Mudblood was appropriate.

Why had he never stopped to think? Had there ever been a doubt, a shadow of doubt in his mind? Probably not.

Maybe what had eventually opened his eyes was a house-elf referring to himself as _I_. When elves had a will of their own, then why did he only exist to fulfil the will of others?

It seemed to him as if in seventeen years he'd never decided anything at all. He'd chosen the subjects his father thought befitting a pureblood wizard. He'd spent his time with the friends his father had selected for him. He'd asked out the girl his parents had decided on. On any occasion, he'd staunchly supported the principles valued by his family. Other conduct had been beyond his imagination.

And so, not looking left or right, he'd run headlong to doom.

Was there a point in regretting what he had done?

He hesitated to examine his past actions too closely, fearing to find nothing but blunder, bigotry and downright foolishness.

Or should he regret the things he hadn't done?

He had never slept with a girl. Now, he never would. His life would end the day he left this cave. He'd either die a horrible death by the hand of the Dark Lord or, if the other side won, rot in Azkaban. He couldn't imagine which fate was worse.

The air suddenly felt chilly on his naked skin. He wrapped his blanket more neatly around him.

Life, he thought sadly. Future. Girls.

Not for him. Not anymore.

Pansy wouldn't have refused him. Quite the reverse, she had kept dropping hints; he'd been the one having qualms. She would have considered having intercourse as a form of proposing, which was exactly why he had been delaying – and why she had been so eager to do it. Bent as she'd been on becoming the next Mrs Malfoy, she had been prepared to put up with Draco. Whoever this guy was.

There lay the problem. His head had been too full with his father's objectives and ambitious plans to allow much space for interests of his own. He'd seen himself rather as the heir to a long line of influential wizards than the delicately built teenager with a taste for Liquorice Wands and brunette girls.

Recently, he had taken to remembering Megan Jones. Her smiling face. Her chocolate brown hair and her alluring, dark eyes.

He reminisced about the moment she had smiled at him. Her smile had sent his heart racing and his mind reeling. For one blissful moment, the entire world had fallen away. He had felt weightless, free and elated. The light had never shone brighter through the high windows; the castle had never seemed more of an enchanted place.

His joy had lasted, however, for altogether two seconds.

Megan had never smiled at him at all. Her smile had been directed at two other Hufflepuff girls who had happened to stand a yard behind him.

The realisation had hurt with an intensity he couldn't explain. It hadn't been shame because he'd been mistaken. There had been something else.

In the days that followed, he had felt haunted. He'd found no rational explanation why a clearly insignificant incident – he was still sure today that the girls hadn't even noticed his sudden discomfiture – could have such repercussions. In every quiet moment, during lessons, at meals, he'd seen Megan's smile in his mind's eye. He had hardly found any sleep due to the mental images and uncontrollable physical urge tormenting him. Worst of all, he hadn't been able to continue his work on the Vanishing Cabinet. Every time he had entered the Room of Requirement, the place had turned itself into a dance hall.

In the end, he'd dragged himself to Madam Pomfrey, begging for help. Fortunately, the matron had readily bought the harebrained story about family honour and the necessity of protecting Miss Parkinson's virginity and given him a concoction that effectively quenched his sudden, mystifying desires.

Perhaps he shouldn't have done that.

Perhaps he should have asked Megan to come with him to the village at the next Hogsmeade weekend. He could hardly be in a worse position now if he'd spent a few hours with her. On the contrary, he'd have something worth remembering – walking hand in hand with a beautiful girl all the way down to Honeyduke's and Zonko's. And, after a nice cup of tea at Madam Puddifoot's, all the way back. An enjoyable afternoon to last for eternity. At least in his mind.

There was an impediment, however. Megan wouldn't have gone out with him. More likely, she'd have run to her house teacher accusing him of harassment. Everyone from Pomona Sprout to Vince and Greg would have believed her. He could just hear his companions' saucy remarks. They all would have been convinced he was up to something sordid. Now, having read his way through a good hundred of Dumbledore's books, Draco recognised the pattern. Disastrous relationships seemed to be one of the main topics in Muggle literature. Montague, Heathcliff, Ferdinand von Walter – the row of ill-fated protagonists was long.

Megan Jones dating Draco Malfoy had been unthinkable, not only for others but also, and especially, for him. Even though the hope of seeing her smile at him again – and truly at him – had nearly driven him crazy, asking her actually out hadn't occurred to him for an instant. Megan's mother was no witch.

_You don't want to consort with the wrong sort of people, son. Only pureblood families are acceptable, and even among them some are evidently better than others._

Better in what respect, father? In cheating on their wives? In lying to their children? Or simply in selling everybody down the river?

He felt a lump swell in his throat.

A muted rattle came from inside the cupboard. In the storage room that lay behind there stood a small bed, only twice the size of a cradle but complete with canopy and frilly hangings.

He wondered why the elf had returned early tonight.

Could he risk crying once Dobby was asleep? Would it really make a difference if the elf saw or heard him? Given the number of sodden hankies the little chap had to pick up ever so often he knew anyway.

Draco longed for company.

Greg and Vince were a bit dull, yet being with them now would be fine.

Or with Pansy. Complicated as getting along with her had been he still had enjoyed some of the more private activities. Small things. Brief moments of tranquillity when he had forgotten to worry about being the perfect son of noble descent. He'd liked lying with his head in her lap while she slowly stroked his hair. Neither back then nor now, he could tell why. He just liked being touched in this gentle way.

He had little hope ever to get touched like this again.

He was so utterly alone.

Sure, Dobby was here. Usually around the clock.

But Draco found talking to him difficult. He could compliment him about the cooking, and the elf would return some polite phrase. Real conversation, however, seemed impossible.

He remembered vividly the time, some twelve years ago, when he had earnestly believed the chief purpose of an house-elf's existence was to have toys thrown at him. His mother had never discouraged him. He'd witnessed, at the age of eight, how Dobby had been forced to shut his ears into the oven door. The same Dobby who now made breakfast for him every morning and laundered his mucous handkerchiefs...

He knew Dobby wasn't here because he liked Malfoys but because he'd promised Dumbledore to look after a not explicitly named fugitive.

Which one was the stranger concept – Dobby befriending the son of his former master or Megan Jones going out with Draco Malfoy?

The size of the gap that separated him from everybody else was scary.

Why had it all gone wrong?

He'd so yearned for his father's... affection. And received so little.

_I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam._

This girl of no wizard family had smacked his face. In public. With all her might. He couldn't remember what he had said to make her that angry. Most likely, something extraordinarily stupid.

If redoing his life were possible, where would he start?

The day that pathetic excuse for a witch blamed him for the escape of the Weasley twins and he didn't retaliate?

The day he asked Pansy to the Yule Ball?

The day he'd spied the dragon in the ground-keeper's cabin?

The day he'd talked to Potter without knowing it? This was also the day he'd seen Megan Jones for the first time. The day he had learned she was the result of a mixed marriage.

The Megan in his dreams didn't mind him being Lucius Malfoy's son. The Draco in his dreams didn't worry about Megan's ancestry. The world in his dreams held neither Aurors nor Death Eaters.

He'd thought up copious scenarios for imaginary first conversations with Megan. There were smiles on both sides. Casual talk ensued about famous Quidditch teams, the latest song by Celestina Warbeck, and Morgan le Fey comics. They were taking a stroll by the lake at Hogwarts or walking down Diagon Alley, eating ice cream. They met in the library, trying to check out the same book, or in the greenhouses, grooming Sprout's plants. They met because they both had got lost in the maze of corridors and staircases in the castle... There were a thousand reasons to talk to her, a thousand opportunities, a thousand chances to earn a smile.

All these first conversations took place, despite their vast variety in detail, in early spring because it had been this time of the year when he had discovered the most beautiful pair of eyes in the world.

In Draco's fantasies, second conversations followed, third ones, then trysts, embraces, kisses, bliss.

Without warning, a hot pain spread out from his Dark Mark. He reached for the cardboard box that rested under the bed, broke expertly one of phials and rubbed its contents on his burning skin.

After that, he allowed his tears to flow.

"No father, I _do not_ think my behaviour is shameful," he whispered between sobs. If the ability to cry was weakness, so be it. Weakness might have served him better all along. Better than the show of fake self-confidence and counterfeit bravery. He'd never been brave. He hardly knew who he wanted to be.

All he had left was the life he was dreaming up. And he wasn't going to let this be taken from him, too.

- - - - - - -

Stooping, they squeezed themselves through the narrow door. All ways in, gates as well as tunnels and secret accesses, were sealed with spells that would trigger an alarm as soon as someone undertook to break them. There were only two exceptions – the door that led directly to Filch's lodgings and the house-elves' entrance here.

"Sorry about that," Harry muttered to Minerva McGonagall.

"That's all right," the woman said briskly.

It hadn't taken him much to convince her. Not only was his former house teacher more than willing to help, she had also harboured her own weird theories about him, Voldemort, and the prophecy already. A number of them had involved Neville, and all of them were centred around first Albus Dumbledore's and now his obsession with visiting far-off, forsaken places. The existence of Horcruxes had not at all come as a big surprise to her.

"Now, where is your Room of Requirement?"

Before Harry could answer, a voice squeaked from around waist-height, "Professor! Twitty is so happy to see you! Are you coming back?"

There stood a house-elf, shaking with excitement.

"Good evening, Twitty," McGonagall replied. "Nice to see you again, though I am a bit surprised that you're still here."

"It's only three of us left..."

"Is Dobby still here?" Harry asked at once. He hadn't seen his little friend since he'd set him to tail Malfoy about a year ago.

The elf tentatively looked from him to McGonagall and back. Then, she shook her head.

"Where did he go?" Harry asked.

"Twitty doesn't know, sir. Dobby never says... Twitty is afraid of Dobby. He wears clothes..." she mumbled, pulling nervously at the table runner that was draped around her thin body. "He says words... naughty words. He does things... He goes to foreign places."

"Foreign places?" Harry, somewhat puzzled, prompted when she fell silent.

"Twitty doesn't know; she swears she does not know, sir... He visits Winky. He tells Winky not to drink so much butterbeer. Then he goes away again. Harry Potter must have seen Dobby run. He upped and ran only a minute ago... in such a hurry."

Harry looked questioningly at McGonagall. They'd watched the grounds for a while before they had dared to approach the castle.

"I didn't see anything move. Did you?"

"House-elves are allowed to Apparate to and from various spots outside the building one of which is situated near this entrance. There is the possibility, he magicked himself away without us seeing him," McGonagall informed him. "However, house-elves maintaining their own friendships do not worry me." Turning to Twitty, she asked, "Have other people visited here lately?"

"The murderer comes here," Twitty whispered, quivering. "He brings people with him... bad people."

"_Voldemort_ comes here?" gasped Minerva McGonagall.

"No! Not He Who Must Not Be Named!" Twitty choked. Her whole body shook so violently she almost fell. "The murderer... the evil wizard who k-killed P-professor Dumbledore..."

"_Snape_ comes here?" Harry exclaimed, even more outraged than McGonagall had been shocked a second before. "What does he do here?"

"He puts spells on doors. Twitty was outside and watched. She saw the murderer puts a spell on the elves' door. But she was lucky. The spell stopped an hour later and she could go in."

Harry felt a bang of glee. For once, Snape, the ever so nit-picking git, had made a mistake. A small lapse only – a single spell didn't work properly. But one unlocked door was enough.

"Voldemort ordering the castle being sealed makes sense," McGonagall said. "What about Mr Filch? Didn't he notice the Death Eaters when they were here?"

"The murderer puts a spell on Master Filch, too. A bad spell," Twitty whispered almost inaudibly. Her bulging eyes filled with tears. "Has Twitty to punish herself now? The murderer worked here... but he was never Twitty's real master, please, Professor Dumbledore was her master..."

"I _forbid_ you to punish yourself!" McGonagall said sternly. "Nor will I punish you for speaking the truth about Severus Snape. – Did you hear which curse he put on Mr Filch?"

"Master Filch has to obey the murderer, now and ever. Twitty heard them tell. He is to watch Master Hagrid day and night."

"The coast is clear," Remus' voice came from the door. "Old Filch and his cat will sleep like babies."

"Better he does, while we are here," McGonagall told him. "Snape put him under an Imperius curse."

"Who says so?" Remus Lupin asked, startled.

McGonagall turned around to gesture at Twitty.

"Snape has been here with a horde of Death Eaters!" Harry grumbled, not heeding the elf who swiftly backed away and disappeared round the next corner. "_They_ hexed the doors!"

"They were already sealed when we were here last time," Ron wondered aloud. "Hermione, didn't you say this was a protection measure initiated by the Aurors?"

"Well, I thought so," the girl replied uncertainly. "That seemed reasonable. Did the elf say when the Death Eaters were here?"

"No," Harry said. "Does it matter?"

"I'm not sure. Have you any idea why they left the entrance for the house-elves open?"

"They didn't. Snape just got it wrong!" Harry explained almost triumphantly. "The spell failed after an hour or so."

"Strange coincidence," Hermione said quietly.

Remus looked very thoughtful. Minerva McGonagall nodded silently.

"Strange or not – it's good for us." Ron shrugged. "Filch cannot go further into the castle from his quarters. We checked. He has to walk round the west wing and come here if he wants to catch us."

"Yes, we seem to be safe for the moment. We shouldn't waste any more time and do what we're here for," Remus suggested.

"By all means," McGonagall agreed. "Afterwards, we have to go and warn Hagrid. Argus Filch has orders to spy on him."

Minerva McGonagall had no problem cancelling the Age Line, but the curse that protected the Horcrux was the most intricate piece of magic any of them had ever seen. No counterspell worked.

After several hours of futile experiments, they all felt exhausted. Minerva McGonagall sat down on the old chesterfield. Harry joined her.

While Hermione was talking about searching the Restricted Section of the library for books dealing with Dark Arts and the undoing thereof, Ron picked up a long pole that happened to lie amidst a jumble of muddy Quidditch robes.

"That's it! I'll just knock the blasted thing off the shelf," he suddenly cried, aiming the wooden stick at Hufflepuff's Cup.

Remus pulled him back just in time, or he would have met with the same fate as Narcissa Malfoy – vicious, black flames lashed out from the Horcrux, missing by less than inches the wooden pole Ron was still holding.

"Idiot!" Hermione yelled at him. "When will you get it into your thick skull that such things can't be rushed?"

She seized her mortified boyfriend by his coat and, without stopping for a second to tell him off, forced him to walk backwards. Once they were behind a large old wardrobe and out of sight, silence ensued.

"They are both right in some respect," McGonagall said in a hushed voice. "We won't succeed tonight, and we should consider using unorthodox means. Since we've already tried every trick we know, we'll have to think of something innovative before we continue. For the time being, the cup will have to stay where it is."

Harry simply nodded.

"Let's go and see Hagrid," said Remus.

Hagrid wasn't alone. At half past four in the morning, the only room in his re-built cabin was crowded with people. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Bill Weasley and Penelope Clearwater were there, old Mad-Eye Moody and at least ten other Order members or Aurors. Everybody seemed to be engaged in an animated discussion. Quite a noisy one, too, as Harry realised when he stepped over the threshold, thus crossing the hearing barrier of a Muffliato charm.

"What is going on here?" Minerva McGonagall asked, astounded.

"Haven' ye heard? He attacked the Ministry."

"Voldemort?"

"Yeah, with a whole army of 'em walking corpses."

"That's true," Shacklebolt confirmed, stepping towards the newcomers. "Inferi, nearly a hundred of them, and about a dozen still living Death Eaters."

"Have there been casualties?" McGonagall wanted to know.

"Not so much on our side, though Dawlish got beaten up pretty badly," Shacklebolt answered.

He gave a short account of the incident. Voldemort's forces had attacked some time after nightfall when the majority of employees – as well as Scrimgeour himself – had gone home. The battle had led to a fire that damaged a considerable part of the building.

In the background, Harry heard two witches accusing Moody of having burnt down the place on purpose. The man bellowed angrily that fire was the only means to get rid of Inferi.

"Where is Tonks?" Lupin asked, craning his neck to get a better look at the assembled crowd.

"On guard duty at the hospital," Shacklebolt replied. "Don't you worry, she wasn't even near the Ministry tonight."

"Last night, more likely. It's already dawning," Remus Lupin observed. "I could do with some breakfast. – Hagrid, don't you happen to have any tea to spare?"

Harry secretly suspected the former Marauder of having intended what soon happened: One by one, people made off as Hagrid bustled himself with brewing up tea in a pewter bucket. In the end, Bill and Shacklebolt were the only other guests still there. Bill was talking to Ron and Hermione; Kingsley Shacklebolt stayed because McGonagall told him to.

They sat around the table made of roughly hewn wood, sipped tea from chipped mugs and tried to chew the oat wheat cookies without breaking any teeth.

McGonagall detailed a plan, which was – to Harry's tremendous surprise – about him. He was to intensify his training with Shacklebolt.

"I suggest a minimum of six hours per day. You should use the castle as training ground. It provides plenty of changing staircases, hidden doors, dead ends, creepy corners, and dark hallways to prepare Harry for what might await him in Malfoy Manor. He will have to go there some day, unless we manage to lure Voldemort out of his newly created stronghold," she said. "Besides, nobody will disturb you here in Hogwarts. Voldemort believes the building to be completely sealed – only, the Death Eaters forgot to hex the elves' entrance."

"There's Filch," Hagrid butted in. "Ye know, the nosy guy's comin' out like a grease' lightnin' ev'ry time I'm leavin' my hut."

"I know." McGonagall nodded. "We've got intelligence that he has been put under an Imperius curse. His obvious task is to spy on you. However, I think we can turn this into an advantage. Since he is bound to follow you, you can keep him away from the castle as long as Harry is there."

"Guess I could," Hagrid agreed. "I can go into the forest fer chattin' a bit ter Grawp. 'S'll be fine."

"Good," McGonagall said, businesslike. "Then let's give it a try. Take Fang and go for a stroll. Once poor Argus is on your tracks, we can leave without being seen."

Ten minutes later, both Hagrid and Filch had disappeared into the Forbidden Forest.

Shacklebolt bid everybody good-bye and left.

When Bill wanted to go, too, Minerva McGonagall held him back.

"Wait," she said in low tones. "Hagrid creates a ruse for Argus Filch. Harry, Ron and Kingsley create a ruse to cover up something else. We need you, Bill. We need a professional curse breaker."

In the following weeks, Harry learned more about Defence Against Dark Arts than in all the years before. Kingsley Shacklebolt gave him almost a complete Auror training – not so much about theoretical issues, but in most of the practical matters.

Soon, Harry performed with ease all common spells in a non-verbal way. He practised blocking both Imperius and Cruciatus curses. He also became skilled at thwarting unknown hexes aimed at him from odd angles. He fought for hours at a time, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Ron taking turns as his sparring partners.

His attempts at Occlumency were also moderately successful. He managed as much as to keep images of Snape in his mind – either Snape on the tower, casting the Killing curse, or a demented looking Snape, roaring _Don't call me coward_. Shacklebolt seemed unable to find his way around them. On the other hand, the Auror admitted to be no more than a second rate Legilimens.

Only one thing gave Harry real trouble. He was not capable of performing an effective Avada Kedavra. He simply couldn't bring himself to kill the ugly bullfrogs Shacklebolt had bought for training purposes. No matter how often the Auror assured him using the Killing curse against Voldemort would be considered legal, Harry made no progress. On the contrary, the harder he tried the less he achieved.

While Harry, Ron and Kingsley Shacklebolt were practising spells, unbeknownst to the latter, McGonagall, Lupin, Hermione and Bill sneaked into the castle. They studied books in the Restricted Section of the library, tried out incantations in Flitwick's secret research laboratory, or brewed up potions using Snape's vast stock of valuable – and in some cases illicit – substances.

They worked hard; they knew no rest. Only twice, they were slowed down a bit when Remus and Bill had to take a hiatus around the time of full moon. Though Bill didn't transform, he felt extremely ill during these days.

One beautiful evening in May, when birds were singing in the sky and the balmy air caressed the myriad of flowers that were blossoming in the grounds, Hermione told Harry that the curse was broken.

That night, Harry stood, wand in hand, amid the blasted bullfrogs and grew desperate.

With another obstacle out off the way – destroying the Horcrux was scheduled for the wee hours in the morning – he would have to face Voldemort soon. Finally, the time had come for ridding the wizarding world from this plague, and he seemed not able to do it.

While Kingsley Shacklebolt patiently waited for him to get mentally prepared for another try at Avada Kedavra, Harry kept reminding himself just how dangerous Voldemort was and how many crimes the evil villain had already committed. He stirred up memories of his parents, of Sirius, Cedric, and Dumbledore, of Arthur Weasley and Charlie...

But, unbidden as always, in his mind's eye there also appeared the image of a lone foot lying in the middle of eleven stone circles.

_Killing is not as easy as the innocent believe._

He would never know what Kreacher's fate would have been if he, instead of completing the destruction sequence, had allowed the Horcrux to blow up. Causing somebody's death – even by accident – meant living with a tarnished conscience henceforth.

Harry sighed.

Was there no way to evade the inevitable? Stupefy, Petrificus Totalus, Immobilicorpus – couldn't he just render Voldemort unconscious and wait for the Aurors to finish the bastard off?

_...and either must die at the hand of the other..._

He couldn't help but sigh again. Although he was fully aware of what the prophecy said, he couldn't bring himself to kill the bloody bullfrogs. The bloody _harmless_ bullfrogs...

Should he really cling to the hope that being faced with mortal peril would give him the ability to kill? The strength perhaps, but not the skill.

He had to practise now. Somehow, he had to get himself into the mood for committing murder...

Harry recalled his fight with Snape – his wrath, the helpless fury he had felt. He replayed the scene in his mind: Hagrid's cabin bursting into fire, Fang's terrified yelping, the rushing of the flames, Hagrid's outraged roars, Snape parrying every frantic attack with ease, Snape mocking him over and over.

_You dare use my own spells against me?_

Yes, there was an idea...

He aimed at the bullfrog that sat furthest away, closed his eyes and thought, 'Sectumsempra!'.

"Wow," he heard an astonished Shacklebolt say. "How did you accomplish that?"

Harry opened his eyes and saw Shacklebolt pick up the two halves of the frog.

"Maybe a bit messy," the Auror said, obviously pleased with Harry's achievement, "but it will do."

"Five down, two to go," Minerva McGonagall said on their way out a few hours later. "Remus, do you think you could learn to transform at will?"

"Honestly, I'd rather put all my will into not transforming at all."

"I see your point. And I do know that I'm asking much, Remus. However, let me suggest you might try to become a regular Animagus, for instance a common wolf. As a team, we could tackle the snake. At least, we could give it enough distraction for Harry to cast a Stunner."

"I'll think about it," Remus answered, sounding anything but enthusiastic.

No sooner had they left the castle than an owl swooped down on Bill's shoulder.

Bill merely glanced at the message, thrust the parchment into Ron's hands and sprinted towards the forest.

"It's from my mother," Ron said, looking at the letter.

"News about Fred and George?" Harry asked hopefully. The twins had been missing for more than a week.

"No," Ron said, suddenly grinning. "Fleur gave birth to a boy, Charles Arthur Weasley."

- - - - -Author's note:

_Ferdinand von Walter_ is the leading male character in "Kabale und Liebe" ( ''Intrigue and Love''), a tragedy written by the German playwright Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805). According to wikipedia, an English translation was released in 1795.


	8. Showdown

Author's note:  
Pello! (from Latin _pellere_; to banish, to drive away) is my version of the Banishing Charm. (There is no incantation given in Mrs. Rowling's books.)

- - - - -

Noiselessly, Harry landed on one of the turrets of Malfoy manor. He hid his broom in a narrow recess in the brickwork and checked his Invisibility cloak. Everything seemed fine.  
He crept forward through the heavily pouring rain until the sentry came into sight. He stood with his back towards Harry and peered down over the ramparts.  
Harry cast a silent Stunner. The Death Eater slumped forward and hung, in his rain-soaked robes, on the brickwork like a pile of dark laundry.  
Down in the yard, a harsh female voice commanded, "Check what is going on out there! Even if it's only animals, kill them!"  
Harry quickly searched for the man's wand and pocketed it. Using magic, he bound the Death Eater's hand and feet.  
"Get a move on, you gutless slobs!" the woman yelled twenty yards below. "Or I'll hex your balls into oblivion!"  
Harry resisted the temptation to have a look when something exploded in the nearby forest. Several Order members had been charged with creating a distraction that would lure away as many of Voldemort's underlings as possible. He wished luck on his comrades and went on.  
He tiptoed down the stairs. Despite being hidden under his Invisibility Cloak, he had the impression the wooden eyes of the carved serpents that served as banisters were watching his every step.  
On the second landing, he turned right. He made his way cautiously through a large, gloomy room – the empty, dust-covered shelves suggested a former library – and down another staircase.  
He knew the inside of the spacious building from their visit last winter. Yet, the poorly lit hallways had a more forbidding atmosphere now than they'd had back then. All was eerily quiet. He heard no other sound than his own breath.  
Slowly, he crossed the drawing-room. The parquetry was old and bound to creak. To his relief, he reached the other side without accident. He opened the door as gently as he could and peered into the dark corridor. It lay deserted. There was no sign of Remus or Minerva McGonagall, who had promised to slip – in Animagus form – past the guards and meet him here.  
Had he been too fast? His wristwatch said no. He was within time's margin.  
Going on alone wasn't advisable. Remus and McGonagall were to take care of Nagini, the last Horcrux. Destroying the beast was essential for destroying Voldemort.  
Even though Harry knew this perfectly well, he was too nervous to wait.  
Stealthily, he went down the flight of stairs that led to the entrance hall. No sooner did he arrive on the first floor than he heard other noises than those he made himself. There was a commotion, possibly a fight, going on somewhere in the basement. Had the others been discovered prematurely, or had they changed the plan without telling him?  
He swiftly swapped his wand for that of the Death Eater.  
His heart pounding at twice the normal rate, he descended further. He could make out Voldemort's evil cackle. Someone was shouting random spells.  
"Protego! Expecto Patronum!... Impedimenta! Tarantelagra!"  
Harry gasped. That was Neville!  
Neville wasn't supposed to be here. Harry quickened his steps – and slipped on the mossy stairs. He fell, gathering momentum as he tumbled downwards. His Invisibility Cloak caught on something and was ripped away; a split second later a hot pain spread out from his right ankle and thundered through his body. He slammed into something black and soft that turned out to be Severus Snape. For a fleeting moment, he saw the man's face, which was more unreadable than ever. Then, he came to lie on the cold, wet flagstones.  
Next to him, the snake uncurled. Voldemort towered high above him; Neville hung suspended upside-down in the air. There stood Snape, drawing his wand.  
A flash of purplish light blinded Harry. He heard a scream that was a hiss and a plea for help at the same time. Parseltongue, a part of his mind registered.  
When he could see again, Neville lay in a contorted heap on the floor. Snape was wrestling Nagini. Although the reptile's long, whitish belly was sliced open, it kept struggling somehow. Voldemort stared at the scene in utter disbelief.  
Ignoring the pain in his ankle, Harry summoned the image of Snape killing Dumbledore and raised the wand.  
In the very same moment, however, Voldemort spun round. The man's red, slit-like eyes bore into Harrys. There was no other sound than Snape's harsh panting and the animal's pained cries as Harry felt the wand he was holding wrenched away. His own one was ripped out of his pocket.  
His heart gave a horrible jolt. Again, he would be Voldemort's defenceless prey...  
To his bewilderment, Voldemort turned away.  
"You of all people..." he hissed at Snape, who was still locked in combat with snake. "_You_ have failed me?"  
"Failed you? No," Snape panted. "I fooled you."  
Voldemort's eyes were back on Harry.  
"Show me Dumbledore again!" he demanded.  
Harry was too used to recalling the episode on the tower. He complied almost automatically before he realised that he was obeying an order given by Voldemort. He forced himself to think of something else... Quidditch. Yes, Quidditch would be fine. He tried to picture himself chasing the Snitch.  
"I refuse to believe this," Voldemort said in a dangerously low voice. "He _begged_ you to kill him?"  
"He did," was Snape's reply.  
'Nonsense,' Harry thought, glancing furtively around for his wand or anything else that might serve as a weapon. He was in some sort of vault or subterranean passageway the far end of which he couldn't made out in the semidarkness. There where iron manacles, chains, and a raised portcullis. Unfortunately, everything, including the lone torch, was out of his reach because his paralysed foot wouldn't take directions from his brain. Was Neville, who stirred a little behind Voldemort's back, his only hope now?  
"What else did he order you to do?" Voldemort asked furiously.  
"Guess!" Snape spat.  
All of a sudden, the air felt too hot to breathe. Acid, stinking smoke oozed from every crack between the flagstones.  
Harry had to get up or he would suffocate. Using his hands and his good leg, he pushed himself up against the wall, but the fumes rose faster than he did. He couldn't manage to bring his head above them. The smoke obstructed his eyesight, every intake of breath hurt.  
"Guess? Yes, I hazard a guess that Dumbledore would not be pleased," Voldemort said from the left. He seemed oddly thrilled. "Mortally wounded and with your wand broken, you haven't the ghost of a chance to carry out his devious plans!"  
"Your turn, Potter!" Snape coughed.  
Voldemort broke into a ghastly laughter.  
"Neither of these boys has the heart to kill! But you have, haven't you, Severus?"  
"Certainly," Snape wheezed to Harry's right.  
Harry felt slightly dizzy from lack of oxygen. As he struggled to get a grip somewhere at the rough stones of the wall, he felt a piece of wood between his fingers. Thin. Long. A stick. A wand!  
Without a second of hesitation, without seeing anything through the thick, greyish haze, he aimed to the left and performed a Stunner.  
There was a thud. And an evil snigger.  
Harry froze.  
"May I inform you, Mr Potter, that you just immobilised your little faithful supporter Longbottom?"  
Harry didn't listen. Something else had caught his attention – an almost familiar, low hum he'd heard twice before. It came from the right where he'd last seen Nagini.  
"Thirty seconds... Potter," Snape croaked, "to solve the problem..."  
'Finito Incantatem!' Harry thought.  
That wouldn't stop a Horcrux from going off, but the spell caused the acrid fumes to vanish. They vanished to reveal Voldemort pointing his wand straight at Harry's chest.  
"Did I underestimate you, Potter?" the man said silkily. "Or is now even my cleverest, yet treacherous, servant overtaxing your abilities?"  
Harry's mind raced. Voldemort seemed to be unaware of the impending danger. Didn't he know all his other Horcruxes were already gone? If the Horcrux went off now, the explosion would kill both Voldemort and Snape.  
And him, Harry realised.  
_Either will have to die at the hand of the other..._  
Great, really great. He hated Divination from the bottom of his heart.  
His gaze fell on Neville.  
No, not him too, he decided. Even if he was doomed, he could still save Neville.  
He pointed his wand, thinking, 'Pello!'  
But Voldemort, obviously believing the non-verbal spell was aimed at him, blocked it thus causing Harry's hand to jerk. Instead of Neville, the spell hit the dead snake. It hurtled through the air and came down a few steps away – too close for Neville to be safe.  
'Pello!' Harry thought again, this time frantically.  
The snake's carcass rushed down the tunnel and out of sight. Without speaking, without moving, Harry added a Sealing charm that Shacklebolt had taught him. Within a split second, a solid wall materialised from thin air, cutting off the rear part of the room. Almost simultaneously, a forceful detonation shook the building. Bits of brick and mortar flew around. However, the wall Harry had conjured up resisted the onslaught.  
"That's enough," Voldemort hissed irately. "You're not entertaining me."  
Never would Harry have dared to dream he'd get a second chance. But there it was. While Voldemort was still speaking, Harry raised the wand a fraction to aim at the man's throat. He put all the might of his body, all the passion in his soul into one single thought.  
'Sectumsempra!'  
Voldemort parried again. Harry's hand was pulled upwards so violently that he lost balance. Falling, he saw neither where his curse smashed into the ceiling nor that Voldemort staggered as well. There was a sudden, short clatter that sounded like iron chains moving against rock and then a loud _clank_, which Harry, lying spread-eagled on the floor, felt as much as he heard it.  
Biting back a moan of agony, he rolled over to face Voldemort. Even if he could not get to his feet anymore, he definitely wasn't going to die with his nose in the dirt.  
Not Voldemort, only Neville came into view. As Harry was struggling to pick himself up Neville let out an inarticulate yell.  
Then, Harry saw it, too. The portcullis had come down. Three spiked iron shafts had run straight through Voldemort – one through his throat, one through his chest and one through the belly.  
"You did it! You did it!" Neville cried shrilly. "You did it! – HE IS DEAD!"  
Indeed – Voldemort's still form lay in a rapidly growing puddle of blood.  
_Without his Horcruxes, he will be as mortal as any man..._  
With a sigh that was beyond relief, Harry fell back on the flagstones. Instantly, Neville paused in his zany victory dance.  
"Harry, are you all right?" he asked, bending down. There was a severe cut over his eyebrow and blood had dried round one ear and down the side of the neck.  
"Yeah, fine," Harry grinned. "I just can't join the celebration because I broke my ankle. Really stupid, isn't it?"  
The happiness didn't entirely disappear from Neville's flushed face.  
"I'll run and get help," he said cheerfully.  
"Can you to get this thing up alone?" Harry asked, waving at the heavy portcullis. "Odds are that the winch or capstan is on the other side."  
"Can't you lift it by magic?"  
"I'm afraid not."  
Harry held up the wand he'd used. Its tip was damaged.  
"Oh, that's mine," Neville said, rather unfazed.  
"I'm sorry. I found it here somewhere. Voldemort took-"  
"Never mind," beamed Neville. "When Granny hears what happened, what you did with it, she won't complain so much. She'll be happy to buy me a new one."  
"Okay," Harry laughed. Neville's ecstasy was contagious. "However," he added, "unless we find a working wand we're trapped in here. I sealed the other side of the tunnel with magic and so we're stuck."  
Neville's smile grew ever wider.  
"No problem there, Harry. Look!"  
Harry couldn't help but gape as Neville shrank before his eyes. The boy became smaller and smaller and also changed in shape and colour until he was – a toad. The toad winked at Harry, leapt across the room, around Voldemort's left leg and through the bars of the portcullis. Once outside, Neville transformed back into human form.  
"What do you say about this?" he asked excitedly. "Cool, isn't it?"  
"Absolutely," Harry said in awe. "How... When did you learn this?"  
"Oh, I practised the whole year. I hadn't any other homework to do, you know, and Professor McGonagall helped me as often as she could spare the time. It was really fun. Even when I kept ending up for a while with green feathers or an extra eye on top of my head, nobody was laughing at me. And the best thing is, no-one watches a toad. Up in the yard there is this horrible woman. She fires at everything that moves – as long as it is large enough. Dogs, hedgehogs, martens, foxes, badgers – all. But I could get in here without her noticing me. And now I'll run and fetch somebody," Neville said. He bent down and snatched the wand out of Voldemort's hand. "I'll be right back."  
Slightly dazed, Harry watched him scamper up the stairs.  
"Congratulations," a voice said.  
Snape!  
Harry had completely forgotten about Snape! And all he had for a weapon was Neville Longbottom's demolished wand...  
"Taking prophecies literally has always been foolish," Snape said slowly. "I knew you would find your way around the wording. You don't go where you're directed to but where you think fit... Albus surely would rejoice at the irony of Voldemort's ending."  
"How dare you speak his name!"  
"Albus'? Oh, yes, he would be delighted-"  
"Just shut up, will you!" Harry snarled. He was as outraged as he was confused. His leg hurt. In addition, a disquieting feeling crept up his spine, telling him that he'd just missed something important in Snape's words.  
"I will... before long," Snape said with obvious difficulty.  
Harry regarded the man with a mixture of revulsion and satisfaction.  
"I haven't much time left," Snape continued. "But you still can have a look."  
"A look at what?" Harry asked warily. For sure, the cunning bastard was trying to trick him.  
"At the truth."  
"Ha! Tell me, then, how did you manage, all that years, to fool Professor-" he stopped in mid-sentence._ I fooled, not failed you_... If this was the punch line, where was the joke? What made a murderer say his victim would be amused?  
"I have a plea," Snape said quietly.  
"A plea?" Harry said, exasperated. He sat up, wincing. The pain in his leg was cruel. "What gives you the idea I'd do something for you?"  
"I'm aware that you won't trust me. I can't help it..." Snape paused, groaning. "However, you're the only one here. I haven't enough time left to wait for Minerva."  
Despite himself, Harry felt a pang of curiosity.  
He edged nearer, shuffling sideways on his hands and buttocks. He was unarmed, but Snape was too severely injured to pose much danger. The man watched him and, without Harry's intention, their eyes met.  
There was a flash of green light followed by a torrent of blurred pictures. Harry could make out some familiar faces, his mother's and Albus Dumbledore's, but everything was rushing past at the speed of a Snitch.  
"Calm down, Harry... Focus."  
Snape's voice, though barely audible, was in a weird way suggestive. Out of habit, not as a conscious decision, Harry brought the scene on the Astronomy Tower before his inner eye – and had suddenly the impression of actually standing there. The effect was similar to looking into a Pensieve except for the fact that he didn't witness the event from the position of a bystander.  
He saw himself pushing Draco Malfoy – the wretched idiot – out of the way. The lesser Death Eaters and the werewolf shrank away. His gaze met Albus'.  
"Severus..." «you have to do it now.»  
«Headmaster, I-»  
«No, it is time to say good bye. I drank Venetian Poison, eight or nine goblets of it.»  
A surge of wrath and hatred flooded his veins.  
«There is an antidote... »  
«Too late. – I stunned Harry. He stands by the door, hidden under his Cloak. "Severus, please..." «you promised to kill me if necessary.»  
He felt unutterable pain.  
«Albus... thanks... thanks for everything.»  
For the fraction of a second, he saw the familiar twinkling in the light blue eyes in front of him. The knowledge that he'd never look into these eyes again turned his black despair into cold fury. Every syllable of the two words he spoke rang out like a cry of a Harpy. Green light hit Albus Dumbledore in the chest.  
Then, turning around, he silently lifted the Body-Bind Curse that restrained the Cloaked boy, sized the other one by the scruff of his neck and forced him ahead.  
"Out of here, quickly," he snapped, suppressing with enormous effort both panic and an urge to vomit.  
With a cry of horror, Harry surfaced from Severus Snape's memory. His former teacher had closed his eyes. The Legilimental connection was broken.  
Harry's mind struggled to comprehend what he'd just experienced. He'd never known that Legilimency was so much more than simply glimpsing bits of somebody else's memory. No doubt, poor Snape had all his guards down. Drenched in slime and his own blood that oozed from ugly wounds gaping wherever Nagini's fangs had torn the flesh, he lay on the hard flooring and was at the brink of death.  
_Albus always hinted that he had an iron-clad reason for trusting Snape..._  
What really had been between the two men was beyond Harry's grasp, but he was sure it had been a sort of deep and sincere commitment. Voldemort must have spotted some of this when he'd merely glanced at Harry's recollection of the scene.  
Suddenly, things appeared in a different light. Killing Dumbledore had turned Severus Snape into Voldemort's favourite. Rather than Lucius Malfoy or Bellatrix Lestrange, he had henceforth been the person who scarcely ever left the boss's side. Consequently, he had been able to keep an eye on the bloody snake all the time. Only he, the master's right-hand man, would have had a chance to attack the beast at precisely the right moment. He'd done so, using the ray of blinding red lightning to obscure a Sectumsempra...   
Ten minutes ago, Harry had believed Severus Snape to be the second most evil creature in the world, foul and deceitful and only surpassed in malevolence by the so-called Dark Lord himself.  
He was shocked how much he had been mistaken.  
"I had no idea-"  
"You almost never had a clue. At times, this was quite amusing..." Severus Snape cut across him, a wry smile on his thin, pale lips. Whispering between ragged breaths, he continued: "Listen, you have to find Draco. At any rate, someone has to... someone of the Order. I cannot tell you where he is. Albus is the Secret Keeper... Well-performed spells do not vanish with their caster..."  
"Draco Malfoy?" Harry asked, perplexed.  
"He's alive," Severus Snape murmured. "At least, I hope he is... Albus assured me to take precautions... I trust you to find him. You've always been good at digging things out. Please, do search for Draco... promise me..."  
"Whatever you wish," Harry choked.  
Once more he was condemned to watch helplessly as loyal ally died. Where was Neville with the healer? Snape might still have a chance...  
"I'm so sorry..." he whispered, his voice failing him.  
"Don't be. I owed old Albus any favour he could possibly ask of me... Make sure... they don't... forget... him..."  
Harry reached for Severus' cold hand and held it firmly until it went limp.  
Then, he sat there, staring at nothing. He couldn't tell what hurt more – his leg or his heart.

"Are you all right, mate?"  
Harry didn't react.  
"Harry?" Ron called, sounding concerned.  
Harry looked up. His friends were busy removing a bar from the portcullis, one of the three that had crushed down between Voldemort's legs.  
"Yeah, I'm fine," he said at length. "Except for the ankle."  
And something else, he added silently.  
"Sorry, we kept you waiting that long," Ron said, while he tugged forcefully at the material Hermione was softening by magic. "If Neville's correct, you must have been waiting down here for nearly an hour by now. We simply couldn't get in. Not even Remus could break through the barrage fire Lestrange kept going. In the end, Neville somehow stunned her from behind – fancy that. Did you know he was an Animagus?"  
Harry shook his head.  
"McGonagall gave him special training," Ron said as the iron shaft came off in one piece. Stumbling backwards, he let go. The bar clattered onto the floor.  
Hermione had already squeezed herself through the gap.  
"What is with Professor Snape?" she asked.  
"He's dead," Harry said flatly.  
"You didn't kill him, did you?"  
"I didn't."  
"Good."  
The word was almost a sigh. She kneeled down next to Harry and started a rather thorough examination of the injured ankle.  
"Did you know?" Harry asked.  
"Neville said you had a broken foot. He's trying to find a proper healer. In the meanwhile, I can apply pain-killing charms-"  
"I meant Snape," Harry interrupted her. "Did you know that, in effect, he wasn't Voldemort's man?"  
She stopped examining his foot.  
"Well, after Professor Dumbledore's death I wasn't sure anymore what to think about him. It seemed all too obvious whom he was loyal to," she said. "On the other hand, there were a few minor details that wouldn't fit the big picture. – Dolor Sedatis."  
Harry felt a tingling sensation in his leg. The pain gradually subsided.  
"Don't move!" Hermione warned when he tried to shift his uncomfortable position. "I'm not done, yet. What exactly did you find out about him?"  
"Nothing really," Harry said. He couldn't bring himself to reveal anything of his recently made, unsettling experience with Legilimency. "He killed the snake, Nagini. He did so the very moment I entered as if this had been his cue."  
"Perhaps he just wanted to change sides again seeing as you were winning," Ron sneered.  
"But I wasn't. I'm sure I was looking anything but a winner. I wouldn't have stood a chance without his help. See, he killed the bloody reptile without waiting for me to make any move. Somehow, despite killing Dumbledore and all, he was still on our side."  
"On our side? Harry, are you crazy?" Ron cried. "You've been going on all year about what a devious git he is and how you're going to get him for the murder–"  
"That's exactly the point! I was wrong. I don't know how to explain it – they must have had some sort of agreement. They probably weren't planning anything for that very night, though. It was more in general terms."  
"Now you have lost me, too," Hermione said. "Who was planning what?"  
Harry made a helpless gesture. "I don't know any details. But basically, Snape did what Dumbledore wanted him to do."  
"Come on, Harry! He killed him!" Ron exclaimed. "You were there; you saw it."  
"Harry, did you-"  
"No, I didn't!" Harry snapped at Hermione. The cautious glances exchanged between her and Ron hadn't escaped him. "I didn't get jinxed! I didn't hit my head on anything! All I can say is that he was true to Dumbledore. Literally to his last breath."  
"Calm down, Harry, and hold your foot still. I've got to bandage it. We can discuss Professor Snape later."  
He watched her conjuring up a splint and bandages.  
"You don't believe me," he muttered sullenly.  
"I do believe you," she stated. "It's a question of how you interpret the facts. See, he led Mrs Malfoy to a Horcrux, the one we had the least hope to find since we didn't even know what it was. He took care Hogwarts was still accessible – only just to such people who wouldn't mind using a house-elves' entrance. Of course, he couldn't do anything openly. But he knew what had to be done, and also who had to do it."  
"You both really think Snape was _good_ after all?" Ron shook his head in disbelief. "He killed Dumbledore!"  
"Good..." Hermione repeated, shrugging slightly. "He might have had his flaws, but he wasn't as black as he was painted in the course of the last twelve months. – Ron, Harry, you know Professor Dumbledore suffered from the same curse as Mrs Malfoy. It burns your flesh from the inside, slowly but inevitably. I've done a little research on the subject. Victims can live with the injury for several more months provided they drink every other day a special healing potion. Figure out for yourselves who brewed a potion that is twice as complicated as Wolfsbane for Professor Dumbledore. With Severus Snape gone, he would have had less than forty-eight hours to live."  
Harry just stared at her, whereas Ron complained, "You knew that all along – and never breathed a word?"  
"Neither of you two would have been willing to listen," the girl said calmly. "And, by speaking of 'being willing to listen' – Harry, convincing anybody of Professor Snape's true role will be difficult. People won't simply take your word for it. They will wish to see some hard proof."  
"He should have credit, don't you think so?" Ron butted in. "After all, he killed Voldemort! He defeated the darkest wizard the world has seen!"  
Harry heaved a sigh. "To be honest, I don't really know _how_ it happened. I aimed a curse at him, but he deflected it. I fell, and the spell must have ricochet from the ceiling or something. When I looked again, the portcullis was down, and Voldemort was skewered."  
"You make it sound like an accident," Ron said, puzzled.  
"It was, more or less. What happened wasn't what I had intended."  
"So what? Harry, you really worry too much. You finished the bastard off, and that is what matters!"  
"You're probably right," Harry conceded. Getting rid of Voldemort had been the main goal and everything else came second. "I lost my wand somewhere around here. Would you look for it?"  
Ron started to poke around haphazardly. Nevertheless, he detected the wand after only a little while – two wands actually – sticking out from the uppermost link of a heavy chain that hung from the ceiling. He had to stand on tiptoes to retrieve them.  
He'd handed both wands to Harry, when a stranger, a lean, elderly person with a mane of greying hair, appeared outside the portcullis.  
"Good riddance," she observed, looking down at Voldemort's corpse. "Has any of you seen a human female named Tonks?"  
"Not down here," Hermione said.  
"What do you want of her?" Ron enquired.  
"Nothing. Remus wants to see her. He's downright begging."  
"Begging?" Hermine asked. "What is with him? Is he injured?"  
"No, not that I noticed. Just whacked and all-in. He and some red-haired lad killed Greyback. Bringing a werewolf down is no piece of meat pie. Even if you're a werewolf yourself. I know what I'm talking about," the stranger said. Pointing a long-nailed finger at Ron, she added, "Looks a bit like you, the lad. Your Father?"  
"My eldest brother," Ron croaked. "Is... is he all right?"  
"Guess so. He keeps babbling about going home to his mate and cub. – Whatever, when you see this Tonks tell her Remus is in the drawing-room. She had better be quick. I can't stand to see men crying."  
With that, she turned and left.  
Ron stared after her.  
"Is she..." he began, uncertainly.  
"Yes, she is," Hermione answered, barely looking up from her work. "Who else would call a baby a cub?"  
"Do you think Bill and Remus are all right? Shouldn't we better check?"  
"We'll go as soon as I'm finished here," Hermione fell in with him at once. "Harry, if you don't feel like walking, we can move you by spell."  
"No, go alone," Harry said quickly. "I'm not in the mood for seeing people. Let alone people who are crying for comfort."  
"I don't understand that, either," Ron said. "I mean, they did in the monster that ruined their lives. It was Greyback that bit Remus and attacked Bill! So why aren't they happy?"  
For once, Hermione failed to have a ready answer. She took her time adjusting the last bit of bandage beneath Harry's knee.  
"I really envy you, Ron," Harry said after two long minutes of silence. "I wish I could have that innocence back."  
Ron frowned at him.  
"I'm done," Hermione announced in a low voice. "We can go."  
A loud _crack_ followed her words.  
An elf stood silently between the two corpses.  
"Dobby!" Harry, Ron and Hermione called as one.  
Dobby looked silently left and right, taking in his surroundings. He frowned at all the chains and manacles, jumped with joy seeing Voldemort dead, and shuddered at the sight of Severus Snape.  
Finally, his bulging eyes rested on Harry. He bowed reverently and said, "Harry Potter, such an honour it is to be in your presence. So long have I waited for this day to come-"  
"Wait a sec!" Ron burst out. "Did you just say _I _?"  
"Yes," Dobby nodded, not flinching in the least. "I use this word when I talk about me."  
Hermione looked genuinely flabbergasted.  
"That's... _good_," she managed. "Please, go on."  
Ron, however, interrupted again, "Are you sure, you're Dobby? I mean, you don't behave like the usual house-elf, you know... er, no offence."  
Dobby didn't give the impression of being offended. "I am not a usual house-elf. I am a free elf", he stated with surprising poise. "I can use the words I want."  
"Of course, you can, " Hermione assured him promptly. "You have the right to-"  
"This is not about elves' rights!" Ron cut across her. "I don't mind what words he uses. I just meant how do we know he's really Dobby? He could be an impostor!"  
"Then let's find out," Harry said tiredly. "Dobby, when we first met, what did you use to beat your head with?"  
The elf ogled him.  
"Something from your desk. It looked like a lamp, but it wasn't a proper one."  
"It was a proper one. A Muggle lamp, fuelled by electric current."  
"Then, I used an electric Muggle current lamp to... punish me. Yes, I did."  
"You're Dobby all right," Harry said. "What brings you here of all places?"  
"I have a message for you, Harry Potter," Dobby answered, producing a tightly furled scroll of parchment.  
Harry took it.  
"Harry J. Potter," it read on the outside. "To be delivered on the day of Voldemort's death". Harry swallowed the question how Dobby could possibly know this day was today. He'd recognised the thin, slanting writing.  
"Excuse me," he murmured.  
Taking a deep breath, he broke the seal.

Dear Harry,  
When the day has come for you to read these lines, I will not be anymore. Nevertheless, I am convinced this day will be a joyous one for you, your friends, and the whole wizarding world.  
I do not wish to interrupt celebrations for too long. Only allow me to thank you for your resolve as well as for the loyalty you have shown me so unwaveringly.  
Also is it time to do at last what circumstances prevented me from doing while I was alive: Asking your forgiveness.  
I ask forgiveness more on the behalf of a faithful friend than I do for my own, departed person. Severus Snape might still be alive when you read this letter. Please, Harry, try to find the mercy in your heart to forgive him. He deserves all the kindness in the world for what he has taken upon himself.  
He is not to blame for the death of your parents. I misled you when I allowed you to believe so.  
Even the day on which your beloved godfather died, and you were so furious with me, I did not divulge the entire truth to you. I admitted to certain mistakes on my part and, by way of making amends, chose to acquaint you with the prophecy. Yet, I still withheld from you the story that lay behind.  
True is, Severus accidentally heard the first part of the prophecy. Not true is, that he came to the Hog's Head that night to apply for a job. He was there to bring me intelligence of an assault on St Mungo's planned for the following morning.  
I talked to him shortly after parting with Sibyll Trelawney. This was when I spontaneously made a decision that I have been deeply regretting ever since.  
Harry, prophecies hardly ever come true literally. Back then, I thought Voldemort would have as much prudence. I expected him to try to learn more about Sibyll Trelawney's prediction rather than to rush into action. I was wrong. Unfortunately, there was no way I could undo what I had done.  
Later, having you in Hogwarts, Severus and I saw no other option than to divide roles carefully between us. Whereas he did everything to earn your profound distrust, thus gaining a reputation that might help him one day to secure a position in the inner circle of the Death Eaters, I was the one who had to win your faith in order to make sure you would follow the path that had been destined for you.

Harry couldn't read on. He let the letter sink onto his knees, not noticing the small piece of parchment that separated from it and fell to his feet.  
"Harry, what's wrong? You've gone all pale," Ron asked, crouching down beside him.  
Harry slowly shook his head. He didn't yet fully comprehend Dumbledore's message. There was only the realisation that nothing had ever been the way it seemed...  
Both Ron and Hermione put an arm around him for consolation.  
"Harry, you dropped something," Hermione said softly.  
"I'll get it for you," Ron offered, already reaching down.  
"No," Harry said, not wanting his friends to see, right now, what Dumbledore had written.  
All three of them touched the little bit of parchment at the same time.  
It was a Portkey.

- - - - -

Draco sat up in his bed. He'd had the dream again, for the third time within five nights.  
He got up and hurried to the bathroom. He had achieved a daily routine. More correctly, Dobby, in his inimitable, obdurate patience, had made sure he achieved one. The rules were simple. There was, for instance, no breakfast before he'd shaved. Did he dally too long doing his morning toilet, he risked getting no breakfast at all.  
He regarded the young man that looked musingly out of the mirror. His new haircut – Dobby was surprisingly good at doing hair – reminded him indeed of an animal's silky fur.  
He decided to look for a book about Animagi. His chance of finding one should be good. After all, Dumbledore had been Transfiguration teacher once.

When he returned to the main room, the table wasn't laid. There was no smell of coffee or fried bacon.  
"Dobby?" he called.  
The elf didn't reply.  
Draco opened the door of the cupboard and called again.  
There was only silence.  
Starting to feel uneasy, he squeezed himself through the undersized passage to the storage room. The bed was used, but the little chap was nowhere to be seen.  
After a short while of fruitless pondering what might have caused Dobby to disappear in the early morning right before breakfast, Draco poured himself a glass of milk and buttered a slice of bread. This was as far as his cooking went.  
He could do nothing but hope Dobby would return soon. Without him, he'd go to pieces in no time. To take his mind off such unpleasant thoughts, he began – still chewing – to search through Dumbledore's books. He wanted an explanation why he kept dreaming about being a ferret.   
He was vividly aware of the incident back in his fourth year at school when the mad old cripple had turned him into such an animal. McGonagall had been conspicuously upset. Why? She usually hadn't cared much for him. Had she known about cases where people became Animagi by accident because their body remembered a transfiguration undergone earlier in life?  
Half an hour later, he had found seven books dealing with various aspects of becoming or being an Animagus. He selected "The Beginner's Guide to Animagus Transfiguration" and sat down to read.  
He'd finished no more than the introduction when the elf came in.  
"Dobby," he cried, jumping up from his chair. "You gave me a real fright! Where have you been?"  
Dobby was, oddly enough, all smiles.  
"You have visitors, young Mr Malfoy," he announced, beaming.  
Draco's heart started racing.  
"W-what v-visitors..." he stammered. What exactly did that mean? _Whom_ did that mean?  
"Come," Dobby urged, holding out his hand. "I'll lead you."  
Utterly confused, Draco took the elf's hand. It felt dry and leathery.  
"Come!"  
Dobby tugged insistently at his arm. They marched straight through the rock until Draco found himself on a sun-lit stretch of heather. The fresh, cool air smelt of salt and seaweed.  
Squinting due to the brightness all around him, he recognised Hermione Granger. She stood directly in front of him. The gangly man next to her had to be Weasley and the third person was, of course, Potter.  
Draco felt his heart pound against his chest. So this was how it ended. Oh Dobby, why did you not tell them to go away...  
Slowly, he raised his hands.  
"I'm not armed," he brought out. It sounded pathetic.  
"All the better for you," Weasley leered.  
Draco made no reply. His embarrassment was almost as intense as his fear. Why had it to be _them_ who arrested him? Why not a fistful of Aurors he'd never met before?  
The girl cleared her throat. To Draco's surprise, she seemed somewhat flustered.  
"Er, well," she said. "We're here on Professor Dumbledore's bidding. That is, in a manner of speaking."  
Again, he said nothing. Waiting for the restraints that should bind him any second now, he stole a furtive glance at the landscape. The forest in the distance was all green; insects were buzzing everywhere. How could it still be summer?  
"If you're thinking about running, just forget it," Weasley said, pointing his wand in the direction in which Draco was looking. "Dumbledore's note said nothing about not hexing you."  
"What is today's date?" Draco blurted out before he could check himself.  
"Twenty-fourth of June," Weasley told him with a shrug.  
Draco swallowed. A whole year!  
"You've been missing ever since you left Hogwarts. Tell me, did you stay all the time inside the-" – the girl hesitated as if she could not find the proper word – "inside your lodgings?"  
"Of course!" Dobby answered before Draco could. "Young Mr Malfoy never left his shelter! There is a spell. Only I can let him out. And I never did so but now."  
Draco, his hands still up in the air, regarded the elf. Never before in his life had he been so acutely aware of his role as a pawn is somebody else's game, first his father's and now – now he didn't even know who the players were. By comparison, Dobby was more like a castle: Steadfast, reliable, stubborn – and all too easily underestimated.  
"Yes, that's right," he said in a slightly husky voice. "I never left the cave."  
"What cave?" Weasley asked suspiciously.  
Draco turned to indicate from where he and Dobby had emerged – and looked at nothing but empty air above heather.  
"Dobby, where did we come from?" he whispered, aghast.  
"Your shelter is right here. You cannot see it because of the spell," Dobby said. "Miss Hermione Granger, you must show young Mr Malfoy the letter."  
The girl folded a piece of parchment in a way that only a small part of it could be seen. Holding it out to him, she stepped nearer.  
"There. Read it."  
He identified the handwriting at once. The one sentence visible to him read, "Draco Malfoy may be found inside Rowena Ravenclaw's Menhir."  
"A Menhir?" he spluttered, staring at the huge monolith that materialised before his eyes. A working Menhir was a thing unheard of! "I've lived for a whole year in a cubic yard of stone?"  
"I don't know who you are trying to fool, Malfoy."  
Potter's harsh tone made Draco spin around. The famed Gryffindor, who had hung back so far, certainly looked the worse for wear. His leg was heavily bandaged; his hair and robes were stained with grime and, most disgustingly, blood.  
Draco had no idea what to answer.  
"Really, Malfoy," Potter continued, "how did you manage to get a tan _inside a stone_?"  
Draco looked at his bare arms, becoming suddenly conscious of his casual clothing. He wore no more than plain trousers and a short-sleeved shirt.  
"I'm curious, too," Granger said. "Tell me, what did you do to spent all that time?  
Reading and crying and asking myself questions that have no answers, Draco thought.  
"I... I did nothing special..." he said, faltering.  
She stood rather close, close enough for him to see her brown eyes. It took him quite a while to realise what she was doing. Even worse, his skill to guard his mind was gone. His thoughts wouldn't stop. They jumped from swimming in the pool to the phials filled with burgundy red liquid and from there straight to his most private activities.  
The girl blushed and took a step backwards.  
"What is he doing to you?" Weasley cried in alarm.  
"Nothing," she said. "I was a bit too nosy."  
"What is that supposed to mean?" Weasley demanded. "What was he thinking about?"  
"He was thinking about masturbation," she said in a low, but incredible calm voice.  
Thoroughly mortified, Draco wondered whether the situation could get any more absurd. Seeing Weasley grimace – probably trying to suppress a snigger – he couldn't keep the embarrassed grin from his own face. He only half-heard what the girl said about Snape and Dumbledore.  
Potter going berserk came completely out of the blue.  
"What's so funny about that?" the Gryffindor bellowed, as Draco felt a fist connect painfully with his jaw. "Think his death is a good laugh, do you?"  
Potter's other fist landed hard on Draco's temple before he could raise his arms to shield his face. Sure enough, his now unprotected belly received the next punches. The shower of blows made him gasp for air. He had little experience with this sort of physical violence. Usually, Crabbe and Goyle's mere presence had discouraged everyone from attacking him bodily.  
He heard Granger and Weasley yelling for Potter to stop. Dobby, screeching as if in mortal danger, tried to wedge himself between him and Potter.  
"Stupefy!"  
The deep voice rang above the din. Potter collapsed. Before Draco had appreciated the fact that Ronald Weasley had just stunned his best friend, Dobby went for the redhead, shrieking, "You shall not harm Harry Pot-"  
"Stupefy!"  
Draco saw Weasley raise his wand again, this time aiming at him.  
"Stupe-"

Author's note: There will be another chapter. However, I can't promise that I will have it ready before book seven comes out.


	9. Aftermath

Author's note: This chapter hasn't yet been beta-read because both my beta-readers are currently not available.  
I apologise for any mistakes in grammar, spelling, or choice of words.

- - - - -

He came round looking at a window with drawn curtains.  
"Hey, Malfoy, can you see anything?" Weasley asked.  
Draco glanced at the room. It was sparsely furnished – an old wardrobe, a table, chairs, the bed on which he lay.  
"What do you want me to see in particular?"  
"Er – what's the colour of the hangings?"  
"They're mainly dirty," Draco said slowly. "But they might once have been light yellow with a silver pattern."  
He'd seen this kind of drapery before. But he couldn't recall where or when.  
He sat up. There were only Granger and Weasley. If he was their prisoner, they were a bit slapdash about it. He was not bound.  
"Where is Dobby?" he asked.  
"You're surely old enough to look after yourself. You don't need a servant," the girl told him coolly. Weasley, for some reason, blushed.  
Like water gushing from a drainpipe, cold fear flooded through Draco's veins.  
"What did you do to him?" he asked.  
"We put him in another room where he won't be disturbed," Granger said, somewhat reluctantly. "A standard Stunner is a high dose for a house-elf. But I'm confident he won't experience any unpleasant after effects if we allow the spell to wane rather than to counteract it."  
Draco relaxed ever so slightly. Sleeping off the effects of a Stupefy curse was, by and large, the best course of action. In Dobby's case, however, this might take a day or more.  
He closed his eyes for a brief moment. He had no headache, felt no nausea. That meant they had let him sleep as well.  
"You put him in another room," he said carefully. "In this same place or somewhere else?"  
"I'm not going to tell you where you are, because I can't," Granger said. "The house is protected by a Fidelius Charm. Fidelius Charms are often performed in a way that allows you to carry sleeping children in and out, very young children who aren't yet fully capable of comprehending spoken language. When I realised you didn't know where you had been for the last twelve months the thought stroke me that the procedure might also work with unconscious persons. I was right. We had no problems bringing you here, and you're able to recognise your surroundings. Professor Snape – it must have been him who took you to your hideout; he was the only one who had an opportunity to do so – used the same method, didn't he?"  
"I guess so..." Draco said. He wished she'd stop asking him such questions. The Aurors would make him remember all too soon, what he had kept trying to forget for a whole year. "When will you hand me over to the Ministry?"  
"For the time being, you will stay here," the girl told him curtly.  
"Yes, you're stuck. You can't leave on your own as long as you aren't told where you are. Only someone who knows the place for what it is can let you out," Weasley elaborated. "That isn't likely to happen because our secret keeper here is Dumbledore."  
Draco made no reply.   
Trapping people inside a piece of magic that was initially designed to keep them out was a truly cunning scheme devised by a mind that had been underrated all too often. He wondered how many times Dumbledore had only acted the fool. The old wizard must have taken delight in deluding his enemies. He'd tricked them, once and again, into doing exactly what he wanted them to do. Maybe all except one...  
What had become of Snape? Weasley and Granger's unusual civil behaviour towards him encouraged Draco to ask.  
"Snape never came back. Was he caught?"  
Loud clattering on the floor below drowned out the last sentence. Looking alarmed, both Granger and Wesley instantly turned to leave.  
"You stay put!" Weasley ordered him before he hurried out.

Draco stared at the door that Weasley had slammed shut.  
So he was, for a not specified period of time, in the custody of Gryffindor's golden trio. He couldn't imagine why they did not deliver him to the Aurors straight away. Then again, who knew what new protocols the Ministry might have established after Snape had left him in the Menhir.  
A whole year... More than one, to be exact. He'd turned eighteen, about three weeks ago, without knowing it.  
His thoughts wandered back to the Menhir, a facility over a thousand years old and still functioning properly. Rowena Ravenclaw's work. Amazing.  
The books had been Dumbledore's, though. He'd miss them, at least as long as he would be capable of sentient thought. He'd miss his swimming pool. He'd miss Dobby.  
Was there a point in obeying Weasley? Probably not, Draco decided. He had nothing to lose. He could as well go and search for Dobby. Maybe he'd get a chance to say goodbye to his little companion.

The door opened to a hallway illuminated by old-fashioned gas lamps. They cast a flickering light over the age-blackened wallpaper. Several lighter rectangles along both walls suggested removed paintings. An eerie feeling of having been here before overcame him.  
The two nearest doors were locked. A third one led to an untidy bathroom. Laundry piled up in the bathtub. The sink and the cracked mirror above it hadn't been cleaned in weeks.  
Next to the stairs, on a rickety table in a niche, stood a serpent-shaped candelabrum. It looked exactly like some of the family heirlooms that had adorned the manor. In any case, it didn't look as if belonging to Gryffindors.  
Where was he?  
Potter's angry voice carried up from the storey below.  
Draco lightly touched his jaw. It felt tender. Why had Potter hit him? Had he said something to provoke him? Yes, approximately a thousand times – in his former life. But not today.  
The voices grew louder as he descended.  
He heard Granger telling Potter to calm down. To little effect, since Potter shouted more furious than before, "I'm just fed up with being used!"  
"Harry-"  
"No! I've done what he wanted! Always... Dumbledore's man – sounds like a bad joke, doesn't it. '_I had to win your faith to make sure you would go the path that had been destined for you_' – didn't you read this? There! He manipulated me... he lied to me. He of all people! He lied! And now, as if this wasn't enough, he has the cheek to ask me to care about Malfoy!"  
Draco's breath caught.  
"Not care _about_," Granger interjected, "care _for_."  
"Stop splitting hair!" Potter roared. "I don't care! I just don't care! Do you hear me?"  
"Perfectly." This was Weasley. "I guess you're right, Harry. Pick you to look after Malfoy wasn't one of old Dumbledore's brightest ideas. But then, that's just the way he was – a bit loony sometimes."  
"You don't get it, do you?" Potter reproached him. "He wasn't crazy! He was crooked! – Ron, I've had enough. I've simply had enough. You don't understand how it feels to be used, time and again. By him, by Voldemort, by everyone..."  
To his astonishment, Draco did understand. He knew the feeling of being caught up in game of which you knew neither the precise rules nor the ultimate goal. Once, however, he had been convinced to know perfectly well both goal and rules. He'd been wrong, and Potter had apparently made some similar mistake.  
"Voldemort used me to kill Sirius. After that, I thought it couldn't get any worse. And was fooling myself again," Potter continued, only marginally less agitated. "I never had all the facts. I never knew what was behind. I only ever _believed_ I was doing things right."  
"Harry, you did things right," Granger said.  
"No, I didn't!" Potter snapped. "How can you always be so bloody sure?"  
"I don't know about sure," Weasley said. "But you can't take the blame for Sirius's death. You went there to help him. How could you possibly have known it was all a hoax?"  
"Ron, that's exactly the point." Potter sounded almost desperate now. "I stepped into every trap they sprang for me. If I hadn't rushed to Sirius's rescue, he might be still alive today. I was so much mistaken about Snape. And Dumbledore knew the truth about him and still let me go on fuming. How could he do this to me? How could he, he, of all people?"  
"Because circumstances left him little choice," Granger said. "Professor Dumbledore didn't lie to you out of malice. He had to protect Professor Snape. He explains this in the letter-"  
"You can shove that bloody letter where-"  
"Harry!" Weasley cried.  
"-the sun doesn't shine!" Potter's voice rose to a shout. There was a bang like from a chair being knocked over. "What are you doing?"  
"Well, the sun doesn't shine into my pocket so much. So, I guess the letter is safe there for now," Weasley retorted. "I don't know whether I can truly understand how you feel. I don't know whether anyone can. Being selected as the world saving hero even before you are born isn't fair. It isn't fair at all. But you're not the only one who's been treated unfair. So many people died! So many... Dad and Charlie. And it breaks my heart to see my mother grieve for them. Her brothers were killed by Death Eaters, too, back in the seventies. This war has been going on for decades! Is it such a miracle that Dumbledore and Snape wanted to put an end to it? That they were prepared to go to any lengths to finish Voldemort off? Lying is a small crime compared to some others, Harry. Even if it hurts."  
"He sold my parents. Not Snape. Him."  
"He didn't mean to," Granger said firmly. "Harry, everybody makes mistakes. Professor Dumbledore was no exception. He didn't have to write this letter unless he wanted you to know – even if only belatedly – the truth. He wanted you to have the opportunity to forgive Professor Snape."  
"I forgave him before I read that stupid letter," Potter said, sounding slightly calmer than before.  
Draco was baffled. Potter forgave Snape? What, in Merlin's name, was going on?  
"I... oh bloody hell!" Potter exclaimed and paused. Then, he continued in the voice of somebody who had just realised a fundamental error, "I... I promised Snape. I promised _him_ to take care of Malfoy. Hermione, can't you Obliviate me?"  
"Of course, I can. But I won't."  
Completely mystified, Draco listened to the silence ensuing on the other side of the door.  
There was a sudden sob. Another one followed.  
"Come on, mate! Don't get all worked up about Malfoy," Weasley said in an odd, motherly sort of way. "I don't like him any more than you do, but I promise to help you sort things out."  
"Oh yeah? Will you?" Potter replied, his tone somewhere between sarcasm and resignation. "Will you tell Malfoy his parents are dead?"  
The words practically propelled Draco backwards. He made for the nearest door, closed it behind him and leaned against it for support. His whole body was shaking.  
Why?  
Why his mother?  
Dumbledore was dead. The task had been carried out. Why did it matter who murdered him? Shouldn't that be all the same to... to this fearsome tyrant?  
Why his mother? What had she done to offend anyone?  
His father... his father was another matter. It was none of his business what business his father did have with the Dark Lord. No, it was none of his business. It never had been. So why had he allowed himself to get involved?  
He became aware that he was thinking utter nonsense. It hadn't been up to him to choose. The Dark Lord didn't take no for an answer.  
Besides, he had thought in a different way in these days. He'd wanted to get involved. He'd been proud of getting involved.  
He slowly slid down the door, crying.  
He sat there, on the old, threadbare carpet, until the lone hankie he happened to have about him was too wet to be of any use. He pushed himself up and stumbled, half-blinded from tears, across the room. There were a few glass-fronted cabinets. There was another one with drawers. He opened them at random, looking for something that could serve as a handkerchief.  
He found napkins, grabbed a wad of them, and sank into a nearby armchair where he kept sobbing noisily for quite some time.  
At long last, the neatly stitched coat of arms on the napkins stirred him out of his agony. He'd seen the same family crest on every piece of household equipment that his mother had brought into her marriage. How did these cloths come here? Or was he losing his mind long before the Dementors closed in on him?  
Desiring to find a means that might help him to calm down, he examined the room. He saw nothing particularly interesting until his glance fell on the opposite wall. Glowing in the light of the setting sun, the strangely familiar crest presented itself there, too.  
He got up and went nearer to read the words underneath, "The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black – Toujours pur."  
A large family tree sprawled on the immensely old tapestry. Draco traced the lower part of one of the many threads with his finger – his great-grandmother Irma Black, nee Crabbe, his grandparents, Cygnus and Druella, his mother, him.  
Going over the various branches, he found nobody still bearing the name Black. _Toujours pur_... it sounded like a mockery. Forever gone would be more fitting.  
There was a small, round, charred hole where Sirius's name should be. A similar hole appeared between Bellatrix and his mother. Yes, his mother had had another sister, Ariadne or some other name starting with A. He'd heard talk that she had a daughter with her Muggle husband.  
This daughter might still be alive. If not, he was the last descendant of two ancient houses. At any rate, he was the last Malfoy. The name would die with him.  
A noise at the door made him spin round. The handle seemed to move upwards. Someone was walking away – he heard steps that grew fainter.  
Had he been spotted?  
Feeling shaky, he went to sit in the armchair again.  
The Blacks had insisted on their bloodpurity at the cost of extinction, he mused. They had died childless and often before their time. Regulus had only been a teenager. Most side-branches – like that of the Crouches – had expired, too, within the last decade. To top it all, close relatives kept killing each other. His aunt hadn't been able to stop bragging about murdering her cousin. Previously, she'd also played her role in destroying the Prewetts. The only Prewett still alive was Weasley's mother.  
No sooner had Draco thought of him than the tall, wiry redhead walked in.  
"There, Hermione made some tea," Weasley said, holding out one of two steaming mugs. Meeting with hesitation, he added, "You can drink. It's not poisoned."  
Draco took the mug and held it close to his belly. It was comfortingly warm. Fine wisps of steam curled up from the hot liquid. They smelled of bergamot oil.  
"Thanks," he murmured.  
Weasley raised an eyebrow in response.  
"Didn't I tell you to stay in your room?" he asked, taking the armchair to Draco's right.  
Draco gave a slight shrug. They'd told him that he couldn't leave the house, so there was no reason to make a fuss. Where should he go, anyway? He'd nowhere to run, nobody to appeal to for help.  
Noticing that Weasley was frowning at the napkins strewn on the floor, Draco quickly put a question before he could be asked one.  
"How did my mother die?"  
"How do you know she's dead?"  
"I heard Potter."  
"Oh, I see..." Weasley let out a sigh. "I've seldom seen him this upset. I guess if you push people too far, they'll either break or bite back."  
Draco wasn't sure what to make of that statement.  
"Do you know what happened to my mother?" he asked again.  
"Sort of. The best description is, perhaps, accident."  
"She wasn't killed by... you know... who?"  
"Not in person, no. But, in a roundabout way, he did. It was him, after all, who'd put the curse on the Horcrux she tried to destroy."  
"A _Horcrux_?" Draco echoed, aghast. "_He_ has a Horcrux?"  
"No, not any longer. He had six, but we hunted them down and destroyed them."  
Draco was speechless. Ripping ones soul apart was the ultimate peak of Black Magic. No doubt, the Dark Lord was capable of anything – but _seven pieces_? Merlin have mercy! A man with only one seventh of his soul left to reside in his body was less human than a starved werewolf in a full moon night... And his mother having changed sides seemed likewise staggering.  
"You look as if you don't believe me. Well, you can have it your way, of course," Weasley said. "But I tell you there _were_ six Horcruxes, and we got and destroyed them."  
"Then," Draco paused for fear he might get his hopes up too high. "Then – he is mortal now?"  
"No, he's dead now."  
For an instant, relief wiped away every other feeling. It was over. It was over... it was finally over... He only noticed that he was trembling when he spilt hot tea onto his thighs. He felt a light touch on his fingers – Weasley had reached out a hand to steady the mug. The sudden, gentle contact almost made the tremor worse.  
"There, there," Weasley said in soothing tones. "Don't get into a state. I've had enough for one day."  
"No, no," Draco whispered, "I'm fine..."  
It was over. The Dark Lord was dead. And so was his father. He was free...  
No, he wasn't. There were still the Aurors and Azkaban. The thought sobered him up completely.  
"What will happen now?" he asked softly.  
"Dunno," Weasley said, letting go of the mug. "I hope things will settle down soon. Though it will be never again as it once was. We've lost too many people, on both sides. At first, I didn't understand why your mother said Voldemort was trying to get rid of the purebloods. But, strange as it seems, purebloods make up indeed the better part of the victims: My father and yours, Charlie, Dumbledore, old Mad-Eye Moody, Parvati, Goyle, Daphne Greengrass and both her parents, Derrick, your former Beater, and his grandmother, the Baddocks, the Urquharts, the Smiths, Burkin and Mr Ollivander, Millicent Bagnold, Rodolphus Lestrange – the register is endless. Lestrange was brought down by Aurors, but all the others... either there was a Dark Mark floating above the scene or they died at least under dubious circumstances. You can count yourself lucky – you're the only missing person found alive in months. Two of my brothers have been missing since early May, Fred and George..."  
Weasley trailed off, staring at the mug in his hands. He seemed to have little doubt as to the fate of his brothers.  
So many deaths, Draco thought. So many people he'd known. All gone forever. Daphne had been in his year. And Greg! Greg had been – along with Vince – the closest thing to a friend he'd had during his school days.  
_The Dark Lord will restore to the pureblood families the power that is rightfully theirs..._  
Another of his father's precepts that hadn't held up to reality. Pureblood families were clearly further away than ever from dominating the wizarding world. Quite the reverse, they were in serious danger of dying out.  
_We've lost so many people...  
_How true... A quest for power that had brought about nothing but ruin.  
Right from his birth, he'd been compelled to become a part of that idiotic feud. His father's endless sermons about glory and supremacy had suffocated any independent thought. He'd been too blind and closed-minded to imagine anything else than becoming an exemplary Malfoy. If there had been a way out, he hadn't seen it.  
Only Megan's eyes had tempted him to leave the predestined path. Regrettably, their pull hadn't been strong enough to overcome both prejudice and fear.  
Fear.  
There was no use denying it: Fear had been an overshadowing element in his life. He'd feared his father. He'd feared the Dark Lord. He'd feared his own deficiencies. Deep in his heart, he'd always known he would never meet the expectations bestowed on him. For him, living hadn't been a right, but an obligation.  
He drank his tea. The warmth in his stomach made him feel slightly better.  
He glanced sideways at Weasley, who appeared still very interested in looking at his mug. What were little Gryffindors told by their fathers? Hate all the Slytherins? Kill them when you've come of age?  
All of a sudden, Draco couldn't stand the silence anymore.  
"You can tell Granger the tea was good," he said.  
Weasley looked up.  
"Politeness from a Malfoy – that's novelty."  
Draco thought it best to ignore the sarcasm.  
"Trying to suck up?" Weasley carried on, nevertheless.  
"No. And I'm sick of these silly games. They start out with vile, but baseless insults and end in bloodshed."  
"I don't kill people!" Weasley declared firmly.  
"Nor me. I haven't the guts for it."  
There, it was out. Now you can go, Weasley, and laugh your head off.  
Weasley frowned, but said nothing. He got up, put the empty mugs on the table, and lit a few candles.  
"There's that thing Hermione said this morning about you," he said calmly, "I tell you what, Malfoy. I've always known you were a wanker."  
Draco couldn't help it. The laughter rose violently in his chest. It broke free, changing gradually to sobs.  
He struggled desperately to get a grip on himself. The disgrace of crying in front of people... in front of Ronald Weasley... Yet, Weasley didn't laugh. There was no sign of glee on the Gryffindor's face, not the shadow of a smirk. On the contrary, Draco had never seen him so grave.  
"There was a time when I thought we would celebrate Voldemort's death," Weasley said at length. "I imagined a victory feast in the Great Hall in Hogwarts, with everybody invited, family members and all. That was pretty naive I guess. The first time I realised there wouldn't be pure happiness was when Dumbledore died, and then, after Voldemort's second attack on the Ministry, when we buried my dad and my brother. Charlie had been back from Romania for less than a month; I wish he'd stayed there. But I still hoped for some rejoicing when it would finally be over. I never thought there to be so much crying at that day." He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, "I came here to tell you about your parents. I couldn't let Harry do this. Well, you heard it from him anyway, but accidentally.  
I wanted to help him although I was afraid talking to you would be pretty embarrassing. I wasn't sure what would upset me more – you starting to cry or you reacting in standard Malfoy fashion, icy and not to be fazed by anything. Well," he said and kicked with a flick of his foot one of the used napkins across the floor, "I guess I got my answer."  
"I've completely lost the ability to control my feelings," Draco said quietly. He was scared how vulnerable he had become. If Weasley chose to hurt him, he could do so with ease. "I do realise that you're trying to be civil to me. I don't know why you do this, but I appreciate it."  
A sad smile softened the Gryffindor's expression for a fleeting moment.  
"I don't know myself why I'm doing this. A year ago, I would probably have said, 'May he rot in Azkaban. Git as he is, he deserves it anyway.' I'm sure I wouldn't have given much thought to the fate of a Malfoy. Back then, I wasn't aware what death meant – what it _really_ meant – or what loss meant, or humiliation, injustice, or despair. But things have changed."  
Obviously, they had changed a lot, Draco thought.  
"What are you going to do with me?" he asked. "When will you turn me over to the authorities?"  
"I'm not the one to decide. And I'm glad I'm not," Weasley said. "On the other hand, putting that burden on Harry's shoulders again is not fair. Hermione says, old Dumbledore chose him for a reason. I'm not sure whether there is a special purpose to it, but I'm probably just not brainy enough to spot the subtleties in such plans."  
"Does this mean _Potter_ is to decide on my punishment?" Draco asked with apprehension.  
Weasley shook his head.  
"Dumbledore told him to make sure you get a fair trial."  
Draco thought this to be rather unlikely. He'd served the defeated side and he'd have to suffer for it.  
"Dumbledore may have said so. He was that kind of person, but there are few people who think like him."  
"I know. Take Sirius, for instance. He didn't get any trial whatsoever. They just dumped him into a cell let him rot there," Weasley answered, rummaging in a pocked and than in another. "Harry got a letter this morning – wait, I have it here somewhere – he got a letter from Dumbledore, and he made us read it."  
"Isn't he dead? How can he write letters?"  
"Well, I don't know when he wrote it. Ask Dobby; he kept it. The point is Dumbledore knew he was going to die because he'd caught that curse, the same one like your mother. So he wrote this letter, both confession and last will, sort of. – Here it is."  
Weasley was about to read out a selected part of the letter when voices could be heard just outside the door.  
"No, please, Mr Dawlish, Harry is injured and exhausted-"  
Weasley jumped out of the armchair. He stuffed the letter into his robes, got something else out – something invisible – and threw it over Draco.  
"Don't move!" he hissed, adjusting the light, translucent fabric with fleeting hands. "It's badly torn!"  
Draco barely dared to breathe under the Invisibility Cloak when the door opened without a preceding knock. Devon Dawlish, a hard-faced Auror with a reputation for toughness, strode in. McGonagall and other people followed. Granger forced her way to the front.  
"They're here to celebrate," she announced.  
"Er, hi, hello Kingsley..." Weasley stammered. "Good evening, Professor..."  
"Good evening, Ron," McGonagall cut him short. "I'm sorry for disturbing. It seemed a neat idea to come here for a little, cheerful get-together, but Hermione has already explained that Harry needs rest rather than a noisy party."  
The two middle-aged witches that stood next to her looked nevertheless very much in the mood for celebrating. They kept giggling while Dawlish paced up and down the room. He moved curtains aside and peered into corners.  
"Are you looking for something specific, Devon?" a black, bald wizard who wore a single gold hoop in his ear asked.  
"Yes, Death Eaters," Dawlish answered.  
Draco's heart skipped a beat.  
"Here?" the two merry witches cried together and broke then into a fit of laughter.  
"Yes, here! We all know whose house this once was!" Dawlish rebuked them. "This scum of the earth might remember and think it makes a great hiding place."  
"Albus placed a Fidelius Charm on the house," McGonagall said, shaking her head. "Death Eaters cannot find it."  
"Spells can be broken," Dawlish retaliated.  
"This one here is still intact," Granger butted in. "You can easily test it, Mr Dawlish. All you have to do is asking a random person in the street for the address."  
"That's completely irrelevant," Dawlish snapped. "The edict Minister Scrimgeour issued this afternoon permits no exceptions. Every building, protected or not, has to be searched thoroughly for hiding criminals. Nobody will escape this time! We'll exterminate this vermin! In addition, everybody caught aiding a Death Eater will be liable to punishment, too."  
All colour had left Weasley's face.  
"By all means, then do your duty," McGonagall said, somewhat indignantly.  
Dawlish turned to the door.  
"You'll lead me, girl," he addressed Granger. "I need to check everything, broomcabinets and lockers included."  
"This is Miss Granger to you!" Weasley bellowed, making Dawlish visibly jump. The colour was back on his face, a lot of it actually. "You come here, uninvited and without notice. You don't even have the decency to knock before you storm into a room. Just for your information, this house is private property and the owner is no Death Eater!"  
"Weasley, you want to be careful," Dawlish drawled. "Your mother has enough worries already. You getting into trouble with the Ministry won't make her any happier."  
Weasley looked ready to explode, but Granger quickly stepped between him and the Auror.  
"We all had a demanding day, Mr Dawlish, so let us get this over with. You should have told me right away that you are here as a Ministry official." There was the mildest reproach in her voice. "I'll show you the house. Plus, I rather inform you beforehand that we have a guest for the night."  
Draco's breath caught. His heart hammered against his chest as though it was trying to get out. He already felt the ropes that would bind him in a few seconds...  
"Does this guest have a name?" Dawlish demanded.  
"Dobby."  
"Dobby who?"  
"Just Dobby," Granger said sweetly. "He's a house-elf."  
Dawlish snorted. "Don't bother me with such rubbish! Who cares for house-elves? – Now lead the way. I haven't all night."  
Draco felt as if he was spinning like a crazed Sneakoscope. Through a veil of grey, dancing dots he saw them exit. The bald wizard followed, saying something about making sure things would go smooth.  
While Draco was still fighting nausea, McGonagall apologised once more for the inconvenience.  
Weasley merely growled.  
"It should have made me suspicious when Dawlish wanted to come, too," McGonagall went on. "Ron, will you give Harry my-"  
"Everybody caught aiding a Death Eater is liable to punishment?" Weasley suddenly burst out. "That's actually the law now, is it? It's not overly eager bureaucrats overstepping the limits of their office any longer, right? Like when they got Crabbe? They sent him to Azkaban for saying he loves his father!"  
McGonagall opened her mouth to reply, but Weasley thundered on, "Where's the difference between them and Voldemort? It's just the same fanaticism. It's just the same cruelty. Only turned against other people. Okay, I don't like this Death Eater bunch much, either, _but they're still people_!"  
McGonagall nodded.  
"You're right, Ron."  
"I am?" He seemed surprised.  
"Yes, using words like _vermin_ and _exterminate_ while referring to humans is always an alarming sign. We need to be watchful where Scrimgeour steers," she said with a sigh. "But right now, we should put word out that the celebration has been cancelled lest you get more visitors tonight."  
She and the others said good-bye, asking Weasley to give their regards to Potter.   
After they'd left, Weasley sat there immersed in his thoughts.  
Draco didn't dare move. He listened to the noises that came from beyond the door – purposeful steps, creaking stairs, clapping doors, and faint, faraway voices.  
Weasley and Granger were taking risks to protect him... The world must have turned upside down.

Draco didn't know how much time had passed when Granger returned.  
"He's left," she told Weasley. "Kingsley did a good job covering up some things Dawlish didn't need to see. He hid Kreacher's den by conjuring up a huge pile of fire logs. I rather don't want to imagine the fuss Dawlish would have made if he'd spotted the door and couldn't get in. He actually looked under each and every bedstead. I'm not exaggerating." She paused, looking around. "Where is he?"  
Weasley gave a slight nod, indicating the armchair to his left.  
Granger approached and slowly pulled the Invisibility Cloak away.  
Draco sat very still. Cautiously, he avoided her eyes.  
"It's a marvel it still works properly, damaged as it is," the girl observed, examining the Cloak.  
"I told him not to move," Weasley grumbled.  
"Why are you doing this?" Draco asked, looking expectantly at Weasley. He knew there would be no ready answer, and that was good. He didn't trust ready answers anymore. "Why are you helping me despite the risk?"  
"Because," Weasley said and fell silent.  
"Professor Dumbledore asked Harry to make sure-" Granger started to explain.  
"No!" Weasley interrupted her. Turning to Draco, he said, "This is not about Harry this time! This is about me. This is about what I'm going to do, and why. Dumbledore once said, one day we would have to decide between what is right and what is easy. I thought, back then, he meant whether we were willing to join his side. Sure thing I wanted to do that. I never had a doubt about fighting Voldemort.  
It's today that I'm faced with a rather tough decision. Handing you over to one of Scrimgeour's squads would be easy. But would it be right?  
Look, this morning, Remus Lupin and my eldest brother killed Greyback. I didn't see why they weren't happy afterwards. But I do understand now – because finishing him off made them murderers. He was a monster and ruined their lives, but that doesn't change the fact that they killed, too... Harry killed. He had to. He never had a choice in the matter; it was simply kill or be killed. But I do have a choice, and I don't want your blood on my hands, Malfoy.  
There will be very few trials, and certainly no fair ones. Dawlish isn't planning to take prisoners. He didn't say _capture_. He said _exterminate_, and he meant it. It's just a posh word for wipe out, for crush under your feet, for _kill_. Of course, he wouldn't have done anything here, with lots of witnesses around. But there's always an opportunity. All he has to say is you tried to escape. Scrimgeour wouldn't ask so many questions; you'd be only another name down on his list. And the 'Prophet' would show off with a flashing headline that goes, 'Heavily Armed Death Eater Resists Arrest – Killed by Valiant Auror'. Or some other such bullshit. I've seen enough of that lately."  
Draco gulped for air.  
"Ron, this is exactly what Professor Dumbledore meant by 'may, for once, justice prevail over revenge'," Granger said somewhere in the background. "He was a wise man. He knew in advance what would happen – with Scrimgeour in charge – to Voldemort's followers after his defeat."  
"Yeah, and I see now why Harry was so upset. Not only because of Snape – no, he saw straight off what's up now. Fighting a lunatic criminal and his gang is one thing, fighting a Ministry quite another. They have all the law on their side!"  
"It seems so. That's probably why Professor Dumbledore chose Harry. He had to ask someone who is prepared to break rules, to break _any rule_ that is wrongful."  
"Yeah, that's Harry," Weasley muttered, "sure enough."  
Draco stared at his left forearm. The Dark Mark was still fully visible although its colour had faded since yesterday. It would never entirely disappear. He was branded for life, no matter how many days or years this might be. The Mark made him an outlaw and endangered everybody around him. Wouldn't it be much safer for Weasley and Granger to kick him out? Obliviate him and ditch him at some dark corner in Knockturn Alley?  
_I don't want your blood on my hands, Malfoy._  
"I can go back to the Menhir," he said very quietly. He shuddered. Was he indeed making such a suggestion? Dobby would hardly come again to keep him company. He'd be so utterly alone, more than ever before...  
Weasley and Granger exchanged looks, then the girl said, "This might be difficult. We were not able to enter the Menhir this morning. We knew it was there, we could see it, but there was no way in."  
"We believe Dobby has a hand in this," Weasley continued. "Hermione says, the entrance to a Menhir is basically the same thing like the passage to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. And I know for sure that Dobby sealed this passage in our second year."  
"Elven magic is very hard to undo. I can tell," Granger added sourly.  
_There is a spell. Only I can let him out_.  
"Dobby can do intricate magic," Draco said. "He made the whole equipment inside the Menhir suicide-proof."  
"You tried to top yourself?" Weasley asked incredulously.  
Draco's cheeks felt slightly warm. In truth, ending his own life had never occurred to him.  
"No," he said. "I'm too much of a coward."  
Weasley's grin lingered somewhere between sadness and satisfaction.  
"Let's call it a day," the girl said abruptly. "Ron, would you mind sleeping in Harry's room? Just in case?"  
"Sure. If you won't miss me."  
"I'm dog-tired. I want nothing but sleep." Turning to Draco, she said, "Come on, Malfoy, go to bed, too. And since we've got no guarantee to be left alone for the rest of the night you had better not wandering around."

She actually walked him to his room. She didn't talk to him, however.  
He kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, but didn't get the nerve up to say anything before they arrived at the door.  
"This is foolish. Dawlish can be back any time," he said, reaching for the handle.  
"Unlikely. He didn't expect to find Death Eaters here. He knows perfectly well the Fidelius Charm is working properly."  
"Why did he come, then?"  
"He was here on Scrimgeour's orders to make it crystal clear to Harry who's in charge."  
"Did he tell you?" Draco asked, astonished.  
"Of course, not. He didn't bother to shield his mind."  
"You are scary."  
"I hope so."  
For the first time, there was an expression on her face that resembled a smile. Draco had been longing for too long and too much for something like this to spot the trap.  
He had no means to throw her out. All he could do was lure her to memories that might bore her. He tried in vain to focus on Pansy. His thoughts drifted off to his daydreams of Megan – Megan in the library, carrying a stack of books, Megan in the hallway, smiling at him, Megan in velvety blue robes, looking strikingly gorgeous, Megan walking with him through Hogsmeade... Although these images had next to no basis in reality, they were lively and compelling.  
Granger broke the connection. She looked puzzled.  
"Is Megan Jones a relative of yours?" she asked.  
He felt a burning sensation rise straight up to his temples.  
"No... I just... Did you hear anything about her lately?"  
Please, don't tell me she's dead, too. Not her, please not.  
"She's in Beauxbatons together with Ron's sister and some others. Judging from what Ginny writes they are fine. It's difficult for them, though, because of the language."  
"Good", he whispered, not caring what she might think.  
"Parkinson went to Durmstrang. There are rumours she was involved-" she hesitated.  
"I don't mind what she does. At least, not much."  
"Aren't you two together?"  
"Well, we were, sort of." He shrugged. "Pansy was my mother's choice, not mine."  
She gave him an inquisitive look.  
"Stop it, Granger," he said wearily. "You won't find anything exciting."  
He closed the door into her face. He couldn't bear the thought of her thrilling further into his mind. His dreams were his last refuge.  
Perhaps she did mean well, though. He hadn't noticed before how obsessed Gryffindors were with fairness and justice. Or were they?  
Granger was also very clever. She was cunning enough to be a Slytherin. Her incessant nosiness, however, pointed towards Ravenclaw. Weasley was plain and honest. That could very well make him a Hufflepuff.  
And what about him? How did his weakness fit Slytherin standards? His yearning for girls of low birth? His newly acquired love for books?  
Wasn't it all a big heap of crap?  
You were labelled the first day you came to school. Not only made your teachers and parents and peers the label stick, no, you had to be proud of it. He had complied – like probably most of the students – readily, eagerly, and not realising that these labels weren't an honour, but a stigma. Cultivating differences inevitably led to hostility and alienation. And, ultimately, to death and destruction.  
Why was no-one able to put an end to this madness? Why, with all the damage done to the wizarding world already, didn't anybody think of burning that stupid Sorting Hat to ashes?

- - - -

Ron waited outside Harry's room.  
"Could you read him?" he asked when Hermione came downstairs.  
She nodded.  
"And?"  
"Sad, lost, helpless, terrified."  
"It must hurt to fall this deep."  
"No doubt," she sighed.  
Ron couldn't help but notice how tired she was.  
What a day. They had won and there was nothing to celebrate. Rather the opposite.  
"Dawlish is a git. They should never have allowed him into the Order," he said, pulling the girl into his arms. Feeling the warmth of her body was comforting. He gently massaged her shoulders.  
"I could read him, too. His fault. Too arrogant to bother," she mumbled. "He was here to intimidate Harry. Since this couldn't be done, he tried to daunt me instead. Tough luck he had, though."  
"My brave, bright, beautiful..." The rest of his words were too muffled to be understood because he was burying his face into her curls and trying to kiss her neck.  
"I think he never had a real choice," she said, absently. "He was raised to be a Malfoy. He followed his father like you followed yours. All your brothers did, save Percy. He turned his back on the family and got away with it, but Lucius Malfoy wouldn't have tolerated any such behaviour from his son."  
She was right. For the last few hours, he'd been wrestling with quite similar thoughts.  
"Yes," he said. "And our fathers followed theirs. The hatred is passed down from generation to generation, and we always end up on a battlefield. To make it worse, people like Scrimgeour and Dawlish don't know better than to answer terror with terror. They're throwing kids into jail for saying they love their parents... That's just the perfect fertiliser for fresh hatred to grow. Hermione, we have to put a stop to this. I have no idea how, but we can't let this go on."  
She gave him an admiring look. It was one of the rare moments, when he felt he truly deserved her. She loved him anyway – he knew that – but most times, he felt inferior.  
"I'll look up the literature about legal action in the wizarding world. There're got to be precedents. There have to be loopholes," she said, resting her head against his shoulder. "I'll start right tomorrow morning."

Author's note: I won't be able to finish this story before book seven comes out. However, there will be either a sequel or another chapter explaining both how the wizarding world will change and how Hermione, Ron, Harry and Draco will solve the situation they're stuck in. I'll keep to my plans for the ending no matter what the "Deathly Hallows" will bring.


	10. Changes

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

- - - - -

Leaning back into the old wicker chair, Ron watched Ginny following their mother into the house.  
This birthday had been a dull affair. Fleur and Bill had left early. They'd excused themselves with the baby needing attention, but Ron knew that Bill wasn't feeling too well. Tonks and Remus had dropped in for only half an hour.  
He suppressed a sigh.  
What was left of the once large and happy family?  
His father and three of his brothers were dead. A fourth one was no longer a relative of his as far as Ron was concerned. Bill had what could be called a permanent illness, and his mother's health gave reason for concern, too.  
The worst blow for her had been the death of the twins. Ron suspected she had secretly loved them more than her other children – despite the fact that they probably had got more telling-offs from her than meals. Perhaps she'd loved them so much _because_ they had been this lively and mischievous... they might have reminded her of Fabian and Gideon, her brothers.  
The news had come a few days after Voldemort's ultimate downfall; most people were still busy celebrating. Even his Mum had started to cheer up a little.  
She'd suffered a heart attack when she'd read the note from the Ministry. Ginny had still been in Beauxbatons and Bill, after a full moon night, hardly able to leave the bed.  
So, Ron had gone to the mortuary to identify his siblings. Harry had accompanied him. Harry – selfless and chivalrous as ever, his own problems notwithstanding. Ron was grateful beyond words to have a friend like him.  
The sight had been horrible. Although, according to the Aurors, Fred and George had been dead for weeks by then, the half-rotten bodies had shown clear signs of abuse. Ron hadn't been able to keep any food down for three days afterwards.  
There, in the mortuary, he had made a silent vow to withhold the full truth from his mother. It was bad enough without her knowing any grisly details. And Harry, Harry in his somewhat fragile mental state, had said something that had frightened Ron a great deal, "The worst is still to come."  
Sadly enough, the gloomy words had soon proved to be true. Kingsley Shacklebolt, conducting a little unofficial investigation, found out that the twins had been caught smuggling Grade A Non-Tradable Goods. And Scrimgeour – or one of his zealous underlings, if not one certain Percy Weasley in person – had given them choice: either Azkaban or serving the Ministry as spies against the Death Eaters. In short, Fred and George had been bullied into taking on a clearly no-return mission. Rather than contacting anybody of the Order – and endangering them by doing so – they had trusted their usually incredible luck once too often.  
They'd made a will, though. Harry inherited their premises at Diagon Alley on the basis that he'd lent them the money to buy the estate in the first place. Ron hadn't known that. However, he wasn't surprised.  
The worst is still to come... Well, good news was indeed scarce, but not everything had gone from bad to worse during the last weeks.  
Harry was looking forward to a career as an Auror, thanks to a clever move by Tonks. She had mentioned in the presence of notorious Rita Skeeter her firm belief that Harry would accept if he were offered one of the many vacancies in the Auror Department. The next day, the _Daily Prophet_ had told the wizarding world in flashing, ten-inch letters, "Boy-Who-Lived Will Join Auror Corps". After this headline, Scrimgeour couldn't possibly take back what he never had said if he didn't wish to lose face.  
Nevertheless, Harry was far from being happy. He sat around in corners, brooding. About what, was a bit unclear. Harry wasn't talkative, and Ron couldn't bring himself to drill into him. Maybe it was Dumbledore's letter, or Snape's true role, or the problem that Harry had to help Malfoy in some way. Perhaps it was all of the above mingled together.  
If Ron had hoped the birthday would serve to brighten things up a little, he had been grievously mistaken. Today's newspaper had quenched any spark of cheerfulness.  
Hogwarts was to be re-opened on September the first under the headship of none other than Dolores Umbridge. All former teachers who were still alive had been sacked. Except Binns who was, for obvious reasons, allowed to stay. Hagrid had been given twenty-four hours' notice to leave his cabin. His owl had come right before lunch with a scribbled note saying he couldn't attend Harry's birthday party because he had to find lodgings in Hogsmeade. He didn't want to move any further than that since Grawp still camped out in the Forbidden Forest.  
The Hogwarts they'd known no longer existed, Ron mused. The odd saying that the quill was mightier than the wand had found a real-life example – Scrimgeour had ended an era with a few scratches of his quill.  
Appointed as new house-teachers were Ludo Bagman for Slytherin, some woman Ron had never heard of for Ravenclaw, Cornelius Fudge for Hufflepuff and – and here Ron had been tempted to hex the blasted paper into oblivion – Percy Weasley for Gryffindor. Youngest house-head ever, younger even than Snape when he had taken over Slytherin.  
There was no such thing as justice...  
Ron suppressed another sigh.  
He'd read another name on the list of teachers that didn't seem to belong there: Neville Longbottom. Neville was to teach Transfiguration. Ron didn't see how his former classmate could ever replace McGonagall. Like all of them, he hadn't even finished his own education. Yet, for the _Daily Prophet_ as well as for the Ministry, being able to turn into a toad seemed qualification enough.  
It was absurd.  
Ron didn't begrudge Neville the fame. Neville had had a share in defeating Voldemort; nobody could deny this. However, whereas Harry steadfastly refused to appear at victory ceremonies or to give interviews, Neville enjoyed his sudden popularity. The poor chap didn't realise that he was only used as welcome polish for Scrimgeour's reputation. Of course, this wasn't his, Ron's, analysis but Hermione's. Though in all likelihood, she was right. She was almost always right.  
Almost always.  
Ron cleared his throat. He had to drop the bomb now.  
"Did you know Malfoy is going out regularly?" he asked.  
The question jerked both Harry and Hermione out of their reverie.  
"But he can't!" they exclaimed as one.  
Ron said nothing. He was the only one who checked on Malfoy. He went to Grimmauld Place at least twice a week. Saying he did so because Harry didn't feel up to the task was correct, but not enough. Something else drove him. He couldn't say, what.  
"How can he leave the house?" Harry demanded. "If you think this is a joke, it's not funny."  
"I'm not joking," Ron said. Somehow, Harry wasn't yet his old self again. "Every morning, he goes to a facility that the Muggles call indoor swimming pool. It's just down the street and then, at the second crossing, about a hundred yards to the right. Less than ten minutes on foot. I checked."  
"But how, Ron?" Hermione asked doubtfully. "Who told him?"  
"Dumbledore, obviously. Who else could have done so?" Ron said. "According to Malfoy, it took Dobby about five minutes to open the door to Kreacher's smelly den. And guess what they found among the jumble when they cleaned out the place – a tiny little slip of parchment. Seems that one of Dumbledore's notes wasn't burnt fast enough, and Kreacher got hold of it."  
Harry scowled. "Good thing he didn't take it with him when he went to visit Narcissa Malfoy!" he growled.  
"He couldn't have." Hermione shook her head. "He couldn't have removed it from the house once it was inside."  
"How can you always be so sure?" Harry reproached her. "You said the house was perfectly safe, and Malfoy couldn't leave unless someone of the Order knocked him unconscious and dragged him out! And here we go! He's strolling around the city as he pleases."  
"Harry, I couldn't know Kreacher stole-"  
"Yeah, it's a bit frustrating not to have all the facts," Harry cut across her, very nearly jeering. "What business does Malfoy have anyway to go to a swimming pool?"  
"He says he likes swimming," Ron answered. "And there is no need to shout at Hermione."  
Harry glared at him. Ron didn't flinch.  
Harry got angry rather easily these days. Somehow, their roles had been reversed. In former times, it had often been Harry's job to calm him down, especially when Malfoy had been the topic.  
"Sorry," Harry mumbled.  
Hermione acknowledged the apology with a curt nod. There was no smile on her face.  
Ron missed it so badly. All year long, he had hoped for some quality time to spend with her once Voldemort was finished. He definitely could do with a bit more attention from her, a bit more body contact... But no such luck.  
Hermione worked hard, studying old court files provided by Tonks or Kingsley, all day and a considerable part of the night. Tonks said there were thousands and thousands of dusty old parchments stored in countless vaults at the Ministry. Nobody seemed to care much about those documents, or whether somebody took them home for reading.  
Unfortunately, Hermione hadn't found out much up to now. She complained time and again that a great number of legal decisions seemed totally arbitrary.  
The only useful thing she'd dug out so far was a clause of the _Reasonable Use of Underage Magic Act_. It said that underage witches or wizards couldn't be held fully responsible for certain deeds. Believing some of the younger prisoners could benefit from this clause, Tonks and Kingsley had suggested an amnesty for those of Voldemort's followers who hadn't been of age when they'd received the Dark Mark. They hoped for Scrimgeour to relent because one of the teenagers in question was the Minister's niece.  
Of course, none of them knew about Malfoy. The amnesty, should it be proclaimed, might apply to him, too. Technically, Malfoy had been underage when he attacked Dumbledore. It had been the night before his seventeenth birthday, and he had left the grounds of Hogwarts before the clock had struck twelve.  
"Did you confiscate Dumbledore's note, Ron?" Hermione asked.  
"No," Ron said. He hadn't even seen it.  
"Why not? That would have been the sensible thing to do," Hermione lectured him. "Besides, you should have called me. I can Obliviate Malfoy."  
"There's Dobby, too," Harry murmured. "I don't much like the thought of having him Obliviated."  
"Right. And Dobby won't like the thought of having Malfoy Obliviated," Ron said. He had to admit that the strange liaison between the resolute house-elf and the Slytherin snob fascinated him. But he only did so in silence. Aloud, he added, "He is – how shall I put it – very protective of Malfoy."  
"Well, yes, he's a house-elf and not going to break his word." Hermione heaved a sigh. "We have to find another solution for the Malfoy problem. Perhaps we should bring him somewhere else?"  
"What about Godric's Hollow?" Harry suggested.  
"No, the village is too small," Hermione said. "People would be curious about the stranger."  
"Then back to the Menhir," Harry said.  
"We can't enter it," Hermione reminded him. "I've told you."  
Well, Dobby could. However, Ron decided to keep this piece of information to himself. Taking Malfoy to another hideout wasn't the point here.  
"Look, I think it's best he stays were he is now," he said. "The house is as safe as any place can be. Right now, nobody can give away his whereabouts – not us, not Dobby, not even Malfoy himself. If they happen to catch him while he's outside, he won't be able to tell them where he's been hiding, no matter how much Truth Potion he's forced to drink. He can't lead them there. He can do nothing."  
"He can give them our names," Harry said sullenly.  
"And you reckon anybody is going to believe him?"  
Harry looked up in surprise.  
"I think Ron is right," Hermione said. "It's a Muggle area. Wizarding folk hardly ever go there. Only Order members did so for the meetings. Though lately, they've met at Professor McGonagall's. Besides, nobody is actively searching for Malfoy. Tonks once mentioned that his name appears on a list of people presumed to be dead."  
Of course, Malfoy could run into an Auror by sheer coincidence. The question was whether people would recognise him. Ron doubted it.  
"When he leaves the house, he's wearing such a Muggle cap, you know, that has a round part sticking out at the front. It casts a shadow over his face."  
"He wears Muggle clothes?" Hermione asked, mildly intrigued.  
Ron nodded. "Yeah, even I thought for a sec there was somebody else in the house. He looks definitely un-Malfoyish with the short hair and the tan and Sirius's old shirts. Dobby tailored them a bit to fit Malfoy better."  
"Sounds as if he's having a great time," Harry said sourly.  
"No, I don't think so," Ron contradicted him.  
"He must be bored," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should get him something to read..."  
_Books_! Hermione had just the blanket solution for any crisis or predicament. Ron couldn't help but roll his eyes. When he saw Harry do the same, he almost smiled.  
"Why not?" the girl said with a stern look in Ron's direction. "Reading would keep him occupied, so he won't get any funny ideas."  
"Right," Ron said as smoothly as he could. "Do you want me to ask him what kind of books he likes best?"  
She shook her head. "I've already a certain book in mind. – Harry, would you like to see Severus Snape honoured?"  
"Of course, " Harry said, sitting up straight.  
"And would you agree to letting Malfoy do some useful work?"  
"Sure." Harry shrugged.  
"Okay," Hermione beamed at him. "I know how to combine both. You give Malfoy Professor Snape's copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_, the one with the many remarks and corrections. You tell him to do a full revision on the book."  
"What would that be good for?" Harry asked.  
"The purpose is to prepare a completely new edition, without the errors and flaws of the old one," Hermione answered. "Of course, in the introduction, it has to say that the late Professor Severus Snape, the most accomplished potion master Hogwarts has ever seen, made all the improvements."  
"Hermione, nobody is going to print a book improved by Snape. Or revised by Malfoy, or whatever you call it," Ron objected.  
"Well, isn't there a printing-press standing in the basement of the building Harry inherited from your brothers?" Hermione told him with a triumphant glint in her eye. "Anyway, the actual printing won't have to be done next week. Revising a scientific book takes time and care. There are more than one hundred recipes to test. For every correction Professor Snape suggests, Malfoy will have to brew the old version as well as the new one several times. He has to note down and evaluate every change or difference. I'd calculate with a week per potion. Plus, he has to redraw every picture and diagram because using someone else's illustrations is prohibited by law-"  
Ron tuned out. He understood that Malfoy would be busy for years to come, and that was all he needed to know.  
He looked at his wristwatch. It was a quarter to eleven. They had about thirteen hours to retrieve the Half-Blood Prince's book.  
"Sorry to interrupt," he said to Hermione, who was now detailing what potion ingredients Harry should buy for Malfoy's experiments. The possibility that the Slytherin bloke might not be interested in her plans obviously didn't occur to her. "If we want to go to Hogwarts, we'll should do so now. Tomorrow at noon, a flock of so-called teachers will arrive."  
Harry jumped to his feet. Hermione was just as eager to go.

They landed at the dark north side of the castle and hid their brooms amidst the shrubbery of dogwood and elder. It was well past midnight. Out of habit, they slipped in through the house-elves' entrance.   
The hallways were empty and quiet as they had been in spring. And yet, there was a difference. Ron walked past the familiar paintings and suits of armour, knowing that he would not come back here for many years. He only might do so in the long run, in a distant, indistinct future, when he had children of his own...  
His immediate future looked rather bleak. He had applied for two different apprenticeships last week – at Eeylops's and at Ollerton's Broom Repair Shop. Both Mrs Eeylops and Jamie Ollerton had told him very politely to ask again when he had N.E.W.T.s. Ron didn't quite see the point. Why would anyone need N.E.W.T.s to clean out birdcages?  
They had reached the tapestry depicting old Barnabas the Barmy's pathetic attempts to teach trolls dancing. Harry walked three times past the opposite wall, muttering under his breath. The polished door appeared and they stepped into the Room of Requirement.   
Despite the mountains of broken furniture, Harry had no trouble finding the right cupboard. He crouched down, pushed a cage with a five-legged skeleton in it aside, and pulled out the book once owned by Snape.  
They left after little more than five minutes.  
"Well, that really feels like in the old times, doesn't it?" Harry said. He seemed more confident and cheerful than he had been of late. "Anyway, what made you change your mind about this book, Hermione?"  
"Well, as you kept pointing out throughout our sixth year: You can't blame the book for the reader."  
She sounded a little too indifferent for Ron's taste.  
Harry actually laughed. "I'd like to go for a little stroll," he said. "Would you mind me having a few minutes to myself?"  
"Not at all," Ron, delighted to see his friend this happy, answered quickly. "Just make sure you don't walk into Filch."  
"Don't worry," Harry said dismissively. "We'll meet right outside the elves' door where we've hidden the brooms."  
With that, he turned and walked down the corridor.  
"What is he up to?" Ron asked Hermione.  
"Saying goodbye, I suppose. – Now come!" She tugged at his sleeve.  
"Where to?"  
"To the library, of course."

The door to the library wasn't locked. They went in, and Hermione started immediately to collect books from the shelves. She didn't have to search much. Apparently, she knew by heart where everything stood. She also never stopped to ponder whether to take a book or not. Soon, Ron got the impression that she was ticking off the titles on a mental list.  
The stack of tomes grew rapidly.  
"Er, Hermione, how do we carry so many books? We have no bags."  
"We can use Hovering Spells," she said over her shoulder while she walked into the Restricted Section.  
"But we're here on brooms," Ron said, following her.  
"Aren't they quality brooms?" Hermione said, handing him two large, leather-bound volumes about Advanced Transfiguration. "Aren't they designed to carry two persons each?"  
"Yeah," Ron said. Hermione wasn't quite as skilled a flyer as he or Harry. Although she'd done fine on the journey here, he wasn't sure she could manage an additional load on her broom. "Are you really going to take our body-weight in books?"  
"No, because I want to take away Professor Snape's supply of potion ingredients as well. Or, at least, what is left of it. We used up most of his stock when we devised the curse-breaking potion."  
Ron was momentarily speechless. When he had recovered enough, he asked, "You don't feel like you're stealing, do you?"  
"No, I don't," she said firmly. "I'm _borrowing_ these books. I'll bring them back the day Hogwarts has a decent headmaster again. They fired Irma Pince! They fired her along with all the others. The new librarian is William Wagstaff! What do you think will happen to first editions worth about two hundred Galleons like this one?" – She held out an immensely old-looking tome to him – "And as for the potion ingredients, I'm only going to take Professor Snape's private property. Professor McGonagall told us what was his when we worked down in the laboratory. I think he would agree."  
Ron agreed with her, too. If he could, he'd steal the whole castle. The thought of Percy and Umbridge reigning here made him almost physically sick.  
Hermione conjured up ropes that wrapped themselves neatly around the stacked books. There was both grace and determination in the way she swung her wand. Ron couldn't help but admire her. There was such an amount of will power, and it resided in such a slender and exciting body...  
He watched her putting further charms on the books. Her every movement made her hair dance around her slim form.  
"Entrance Hall!" she commanded, and the books rose into the air. They glided towards the open door, and out of it, and vanished from sight.  
Ron cleared his throat. It didn't help. His question came out as a half-croak.  
"What if Filch finds them?"  
"Hardly," she said, completely unperturbed. "I sent Hagrid's owl back after lunch. I asked him to invite Filch to a farewell drink and to make sure he gets sufficiently drunk."  
He gaped at her.  
"You have been... _planning_ to come here tonight?"  
"As a matter of fact, yes."  
He just stared. She was amazing. She was gorgeous. She was... irresistibly female. His eyes travelled down her cheek and along her jawbone. The urge to trace this same line with his lips was overwhelming.  
"I want to sleep with you," he stated, his voice low and imploring. "Now."  
"Right here?" she asked. "Here in the library?"  
"No. Up in my dorm." His words were a mere whisper. "In my bed."  
She smiled. He knew that sort of smile: promising, and demanding. He felt her invade his mind. It was all right. She would find naught but images of her own thighs and the place where they met, seen from, say, five inches distance. He could think of nothing else.  
"Come," she purred and took his hand.

Nigh on two hours later, Ron was bouncing down the stairs to the dungeons. Yes, bouncing was the accurate verb to describe the way he moved. Or the way he felt. He felt absolutely great. He felt like singing, like jumping, like dancing.  
All of a sudden, Hermione, who was running alongside him, stopped in her tracks.  
"I can fetch those potions ingredients alone," she said. "You should go and find Harry."  
A pang of guilt quenched Ron's euphoria. He rushed to the house-elves' entrance. Harry wasn't there. The brooms were untouched.  
With no idea where to start a search, he hastened back into the castle.  
But he was lucky – Harry was sitting in the Great Hall, at the Gryffindor table. The wave of relief that flooded Ron's veins swept back the feeling of joy and ecstasy.  
Drawing nearer, however, Ron saw that Harry had put his glasses down. His eyes were red, the lips dry and cracked, and ugly blotches spread all over his face.  
"Harry... what happened?"  
"It's okay. Don't worry," Harry said, his voice oddly muffled. "I needed this... this bit of solitude. Thanks for giving me a few minutes alone."  
Merlin's grace, a few minutes!  
Ron, his brain still soaked with the bliss of the last two hours, attributed Harry's tears to the strange reluctance Ginny had shown lately to spend time with him.  
"Is it to do with my sister?" he asked softly, sitting down next to his friend.  
"Ginny?" Harry asked in surprise. "No, I just... oh, I see what you're aiming at." He sighed. "Well, I don't know with her. She's changed. The girl that came back from Beauxbatons seems not to be the same one that went there a year ago. Maybe it's just my imagination."  
Harry wasn't imagining things. Ginny had changed. She was more earnest, more poised. Perhaps he should call it more mature, Ron mused. Then again, Ginny had lost half her family, too. Why would this affect her less than him?  
"It's hard to cope, Harry, when all your family and friends are equally laden with grief and worries." Speaking, he realised how fortunate he was to have something unspoiled to hold on to. Hermione's love, the privilege of sleeping with her, gave him a chance to escape reality, even though only for short bouts of time.  
"I know," Harry said slowly. "I don't blame anyone, and your sister least of all. She's lost her father and three of her brothers. Another brother and her mother are seriously ill. And there's nothing she can do about it. For me, this has always been the worst: to sit and watch bad things happen, to have no power to stop them from happening." He put the wet hankie away and went on with more determination, "Ron, I want to learn everything that Kingsley can teach me, all the tricks, all the clever methods, all the spells and counter-spells. I've already learned more from him in six weeks than in all the DADA lessons together. It's not as if I wish to serve Scrimgeour and his bureaucrats, but I must not waste this chance. I always wanted to become an Auror. Fortunately, there are still some of the old crowd in the Auror Department, people I can trust. Dawlish is Scrimgeour's man, no mistake about that, but he doesn't have much say. The man in charge is Gawain Robards. I guess he is all right, although he wasn't in the Order. He's an independent mind, Kingsley says. He's not the type that bows and scrapes."  
"But Harry, I thought you'd made up your mind long ago," Ron said, rather baffled by his friend's lengthy speech.  
"I signed the parchment, yes, but I had misgivings. I think I still have them. In my heart of hearts, I know one day I will have to decide between a career in the Ministry and my conscience. When this day comes, Ron, be a friend and remind me not to behave like a complete arsehole."  
"Err, yeah..." Ron mumbled. For lack of words, he put his arm around his friend's shoulders.  
"Thanks," Harry said gratefully.  
Ron wasn't sure why Harry was giving him thanks. He'd done nothing. He hadn't even said anything remotely helpful.  
"This school has been my home, for I had none other," Harry said in a low voice. "The people here have been my family. And now, that is over."  
"You can always stay at the Burrow," Ron said, trailing off. There were more than enough empty rooms now.  
"All last year, I was somehow imagining I would come back here. I wasn't consciously planning to do my seventh year. It was something underneath, right beyond where you can grasp it," Harry continued as if he hadn't heard him. Then, after a pause, he added, "Yes, I will stay at the Burrow, with your Mum – don't worry. It's really weird, you know, I own three houses and I don't feel like living in any of them."  
Hearing his mother mentioned, Ron recalled something Hermione had told him, between kisses, about half an hour ago. He became aware of how torn he was between love and friendship. He couldn't let Hermione go alone; he couldn't leave Harry behind.  
"Harry," he said tentatively, "Hermione says she's going to Beauxbatons."  
"Yes. And you're going to go with her." Harry's tone wasn't that of a question.  
"Er... I haven't decided, yet."  
"Do it. I'll lend you the money." Before Ron could protest, he added, "You can pay it back once you earn your own living."  
"You sure?"  
"Definitely. Look, Ron, they won't give anyone a decent job who hasn't N.E.W.T.s. And they won't give anyone N.E.W.T.s without a full and proper exam. They didn't do this for Neville and me because they like us. Offering us well-regarded positions was just politics – _oh look here, our young heroes go straight on to a magnificent career, applying their skill to noble purposes_... It's no more than a pompous show for the public; Scrimgeour likes getting good press. I'm not so naive anymore as not to see that."  
"But if I go with Hermione, you'll be all alone."  
"I'll stay with your Mum. Tonks and Remus are also here. And Malfoy."  
"Oh yeah, I forgot. You sure he can replace me?" Ron tried to joke. He was afraid Harry would lapse into brooding again.  
However, Harry laughed. It wasn't a carefree laugh, but it was a laugh. "Do you really think we can trust him with this book?" he asked, stroking the textbook that lay before him on the table with an air of reverence.  
"Well, trust a Malfoy... " Ron shrugged. "For the moment, he's quite docile. Of course, we have no guarantee he stays this way."  
"Dumbledore was a great believer in giving people second chances. I think I've figured out, why. He needed one himself. Perhaps Malfoy deserves one, too. He didn't actually kill anybody although it was a close shave with the poisoned mead."  
He looked at Ron for consent.  
"Yeah, I know," Ron said heavily. He wondered how Malfoy now felt about the episode. Back then, he had surely not cared much whether or not he accidentally killed a Weasley. "I'd like to hear him apologise one day. Not necessarily right now and certainly I don't want to hear him just mouthing words. I'd like him to feel sorry, genuinely sorry, for what he did, and to admit it."  
"Okay. That's settled, then," Harry said, sounding reassured. "Unfortunately, we still have another problem – the paintings of Phineas Nigellus. One is in what will be Umbridge's office very soon and the other one is, well, you know, where. Nigellus could drop her hints about my guest."  
"We've got to get rid of them!" Ron burst out, startled.  
"Get rid of whom?" Hermione asked, sitting down opposite him and Harry.  
"Phineas Nigellus!" Ron told her. "We must get the portrait out of Dumbledore's office-"  
"We can't," Hermione interrupted him. "The paintings are glued to the walls with Permanent Sticking Charms."  
"We can remove the other one," Harry said.  
"Too late," Ron said, frowning. "He's surely seen Malfoy long since. What can we do? If that hag Umbridge finds out she'll ruin Harry's whole career!"  
"Perhaps I have an idea," Hermione said. There was a glow of stern determination on her face. "We can't do anything about the portraits. They are charmed to support the headmaster, whoever this may be. But to Umbridge's misfortune, we can prevent her from consulting them."  
"Let me guess," Ron said, unable to hide his grin, "_Hogwarts. A History_?"  
"Depends," Hermione said, smiling warmly at him. "About the specially charmed portraits, I read in the book. How to seal the Headmaster's office, I learned from Professor McGonagall. – Come on boys, we're running out of time."

"This isn't the normal type of password," the girl explained on the way. "Professor McGonagall detailed the subtleties to me. She had me help her when she changed the code in May."  
"You know the current password?" Harry asked.  
"Yes. It's _Albus has moonstones for dinner_."  
"That's nonsense," Ron said, shaking his head. "How can anyone eat stones?"  
"Exactly," Hermione said. "It's not enough to make the password hard to guess. You also have to make sure no-one utters the crucial words by sheer coincidence."  
"Like _Dogs are herbivores_?" Harry suggested.  
"That's a good one." Hermione beamed at him. "I think we can use it. Perhaps we should specify the dog's race."  
"Poodle, beagle, Alsatian, Labrador, collie-"  
"Hold it, mate," Ron interrupted. "That sounds good: _Labradors are herbivores_. It kind of rhymes."  
"I agree. Labradors are good choice. They're not widely known in the wizarding world," Hermione said. They had reached the gargoyle that guarded the entrance. "Now, put your left hand on the gargoyle and repeat what I say. Ready?"  
They nodded.  
Hermione took out her wand and placed her free hand on the stony head. Ron and Harry followed suit.  
"I take back _Albus has moonstones for dinner_," she said solemnly.  
Ron and Harry repeated her words.  
"The new password is _Labradors are herbivores_," Hermione stated.  
Ron and Harry said the same.  
"Vallus Validus!" Hermione intoned, swinging her wand.  
"Vallus Validus!" Ron said, mimicking her.  
"Vallus Validus!" Harry added with a flourish of his wand.  
Hermione lowered her wand and stepped back. "Well, that's it. Now, it will take nine people to overrule the password, then twenty-seven and so on until someone figures out what additional spell Professor McGonagall used."  
"It will get a bit crowded here with so many people," Harry observed.  
Hermione shrugged. "That's not our problem. Any of us," – she pointed to Harry, Ron and her – "can undo our password if necessary. To overrule McGonagall's again, you'll need two assistants, though."  
"Bloody brilliant," Ron said under his breath. Umbridge and her staff would stand here, shouting in vain random passwords for days and weeks and months...  
"I will add a little refinement," Hermione said, giving him a passionate look. "I think I owe that much to Umbridge." She made a complicated movement with her wand and murmured, "Respuere Gelidam!"  
"What does this spell do?" Harry wanted to know.  
"Everybody using a wrong password will get doused in icy water," she said calmly. "It's a gargoyle after all, isn't it?"  
Drawing each other vivid pictures of a dripping wet Umbridge stomping her feet with white-hot rage, they were chuckling and giggling all the way down to their brooms.  
Rain greeted them when they exited the castle. It poured down steadily since no breeze was moving the heavy clouds.  
"All the better," Harry said. "We don't have to worry about being spotted."  
He and Ron fastened the luggage on the brooms while Hermione performed several Bubble Charm Spells to keep the books and the stuff from Snape's laboratory dry.  
They mounted their brooms and then, with one last glance back at the old, stately building, they seared up into the grey morning sky.

- - - - -

Draco sat in the room he privately called his study. It was furnished with a large table that might have come from the drawing room, a desk of normal size, three chairs, two empty cabinets and an old, but elegant sideboard.  
He had collected any item in the house that might be useful in a study: old quills, a bottle of ink, some parchment, and six books. Five of them were old textbooks that had belonged to either Regulus or Sirius. The sixth, a badly worn paperback containing cooking recipes, had "M. Weasley" written on the cover. Dobby had taken this one with him when he next had left the house.  
The little chap went out often. He seldom said more than when to expect him to be back. Draco could but speculate where the elf was going other than to the Menhir. From there, Dobby fetched books – one at a time because he wasn't capable of Apparating with heavier burdens. ()  
Draco saw no chance for himself of going back to the Menhir. He couldn't access the Floo Network. He had neither broom nor wand, and trying to Apparate without the latter came pretty close to suicide. For using any of the Muggle means of transportation, he would need Muggle money. Besides, he didn't have the nerve for travelling this slowly across half of Britain. Walking the short distance to the indoor swimming pool each day took already all his courage.  
Then again, he needed the regular escape from the gloomy house. He needed the exercise. Strange as it seemed, the physical exhaustion made him feel better. He was calmer and more confident after his routine hour of swimming. Walking back from the pool, he was less afraid of being discovered and arrested than on the way there.  
The Muggle facility held its own perils, though. One afternoon, the place had been teeming with teenage girls clad in colourful nothings. The mere sight had driven him into a state of uncontrollable arousal. Since he had been wearing no more than bathing trunks too thin and too tight to hide his desire, he had practically fled into one of the changing cubicles adjoining the shower room. There, he had given in to the pressing urge – very quietly so, swallowing the moans of self-inflicted pleasure lest he could be overheard from the neighbouring stalls.  
He was resolved not to subject himself to such embarrassment again. As a result, he now went for his daily swim at eight in the morning when he had to share the pool only with a small number of aged people. They were so frail they had to be pushed in wheel chairs. Nurses or, perhaps, Muggle healers lowered them into the water and helped them move their feeble limbs. None of them paid any attention to the lone young man swimming his rows, and Draco pretended not to see them.  
All the same, images of sparsely dressed girls had found their way into his dreams. He occasionally woke up in the middle of the night, the trousers of his pyjamas wet and sticky. He was, however, far from complaining. Dreams about kissing nude girls were rather enjoyable, especially compared to the ones about growing silvery-white fur.  
He glanced over at the pitiful assembly of books resting on the sideboard. Bound in dark leather, the old volumes looked very decorative. They were also absolutely useless.  
Should he beg?  
Weasley dropped in just about every other day. Why, remained a little unclear. He came here under some pretence or other, poked around without apparent purpose, and asked Dobby pointless questions.  
Despite the outward ineptness, Weasley had found out pretty quickly and with surprising ease about his and Dobby's discovery concerning the house. To Draco's astonishment, he hadn't made a fuss. He had simply stated, "Well, Malfoy, it's your neck you're risking."  
Draco wasn't sure what to make of Weasley's comment. Was there no actual risk in leaving the house? The area was clearly Muggle territory. However, whereas Muggles could be kept away from the wizarding world they had no means to keep witches and wizards out of theirs. Or did his old Gryffindor nemesis want him to be caught? If something unpleasant happened outside the house, Potter was – technically – not responsible. But was such scheming not a bit too sly for Ronald Weasley?  
Dobby did not object to Draco's excursions to the swimming pool. On the contrary, he encouraged him. Could the elf have established safeguards alongside the way? Could elves do that?  
Of all misconceptions that Draco had been entertaining in his life the one about house-elves being an inferior race might be the most erroneous. House-elves could perform stunning magic _without_ a wand. Maybe here lay the true reason why they were forbidden to own one. Wielding wands, they might turn out to be the greater experts at magic.  
Was something similar true for the goblins? And the giants? The centaurs?  
There wasn't even proof for the theory of purebloods being better at magic than Muggle-borns. You merely had to compare Granger to Vince or poor, deceased Greg. Or to compare her to him. She had beaten him in every exam, no matter how many hours he'd spent swotting up on the topics. The only time he had outwitted everybody had been the evening when he had introduced downright riff-raff to the school – thugs and a bloodthirsty monster that considered every breathing creature as prey.  
Draco sighed. He got up and stepped to the window.  
It was a beautiful sight. There were old trees – oaks, elms and magnolias – and scores of flowering shrubs. Butterflies danced around a group of buddleias in the bright sun of an early August afternoon. In the mornings, the scenery sparkled with dew. And in the evening hours, the trees cast deep shadows on the narrow footpaths that meandered beneath them. Even on rainy days, the park was a picture of perfection with its myriad of dripping leaves, stretches of wet lawn, and little puddles and runlets of water.  
It had only one flaw: It didn't exist.  
As soon as Draco opened the window, the park vanished. It was replaced with the grey walls of neighbouring buildings, an ugly shack for bicycles and a vast assortment of dustbins. There was no smell of jasmine drifting in, and the only plants were a few tenacious dandelions that had managed to break through the thick layer of black asphalt covering the whole yard.  
Draco considered the enchanted window an example of what magic could truly be. Instead of using your talent for destruction, you could _create_ things – beautiful and enticing as this park, or else, long lasting and handy as a Menhir. Such objects were monuments to the skill and inventiveness of the witches and wizards who crafted them.  
But there were also moments, when he thought this window might serve as a metaphor for his life – a mock prospect barring the view at dull reality.  
He sighed again and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane.  
The unoccupied afternoons stretched endlessly. He had nothing to fight off boredom. No books to read, no tasks to do. Dobby had very markedly frowned at him when he had polished and re-arranged the glassware in the drawing room for the third time.  
He had nothing but his troubled thoughts.  
Worst of all, he had nothing to answer the questions that haunted him.  
There was a knock at the door.  
Draco turned round, surprised. It was far too early for dinner.  
"Come in," he called.  
The door opened with the familiar, faint creak.  
Draco gasped. Striding into the room was Harry Potter, the hero in person.  
"I've got to talk to you, Malfoy," he announced, not bothering with preliminaries.  
"Yes," Draco said, keeping his reply as brief as possible. Luckily, there was a large and massive table between the two of them.  
However, before Potter could say or do something, Dobby burst into the room.  
"Harry Potter! Such a pleasure to see you!" he cried, but added in the same breath, "Harry Potter, you are not going to pick a fight with young Mr Malfoy, do you?"  
Potter smiled at the elf.  
"Hi Dobby. Don't worry. I'm not up to fighting."  
"Oh, good..." Dobby said, visibly relaxing. "You see, the situation is difficult for me. I promised Professor Dumbledore not to let anyone hurt young Mr Malfoy, and he didn't say anything about exceptions. But I can't allow you to be harmed, either, Harry Potter. This is really very difficult."  
"Don't worry," Potter repeated. "I have only a few questions."  
"Questions?" Dobby asked, uneasy again. He quivered a bit, when he said, "Young Mr Malfoy will give back the little piece of plastic as soon as he doesn't need it anymore. I will see to it."  
Potter looked blank.  
Draco stifled a groan. Of course, he knew that Dobby had nicked the annual ticked. But he was too Slytherin to tell the little chap to bring it back... Besides, the Ministry _recommended_ a whole list of charms for Obliviating, Confunding, and Repelling Muggles. Why was there a difference if an elf used such tricks?  
"Dobby, what are you talking about?" Potter asked, puzzled.  
"The nice Muggle woman who sits at the entrance of the swimming pool owns several boxes filled with these plastic things. I took only one. She won't miss it."  
Potter frowned at Dobby for one or two seconds. Then, he rounded on Draco.  
"Malfoy, you _have Dobby steal for you_?"  
"No, he did not order me! I do not take orders!" Dobby cried, not letting Draco say a single word. "I am a free elf, and young Mr Malfoy didn't even _know_ the Muggles had such a fine swimming pool. The woman at the entrance doesn't ask money from people who show her one of the plastic things. That's why I borrowed it."  
"Are you saying this was all your idea?" Potter asked, turning back to the elf.  
"It was," Dobby said proudly.  
"Oh well, Dobby, you're always good for a surprise," Potter sighed. "Would you mind leaving us alone for a while?"  
Dobby looked sceptically from one man to the other before he nodded. More to himself than to Draco or Potter, he muttered, "I'll be at the ready," and slipped out of the door.  
"He meant well," Draco said softly. "There's no need to punish him."  
"I wouldn't dream of punishing Dobby!" Potter snapped.  
Draco raised his hands in a soothing gesture. Why couldn't they communicate civilly?  
"I just suggested you shouldn't," he said. "Could we agree, for once, to be of the same opinion?"  
Potter didn't respond. He gave him a long, scrutinising look, then he straightened up and moved his shoulders a little as if to shake off something.  
"I've got to talk to you," he announced for the second time. "Apart from the stuff Dobby pilfers for you, you're living quite comfortably on my expense. I would like to get some service in return."  
Draco swallowed. Serving Potter – Merlin's grace, what did the guy have in mind?  
"I want you to do a full revision on this book," Potter continued, producing something wrapped in brownish paper from inside his cloak. "A scientific revision."  
"Scientific work?" Draco slowly asked after half a minute of stunned silence. "I never realised you held such an esteem for my abilities."  
"Is this a refusal?" Potter's tone was far from friendly.  
Draco shook his head. He would like nothing better than to get his hands on this book, whatever it was. After more than a month of starvation, any topic was welcome.  
Quietly, because he had no desire to get another taste of Potter's quick temper, he asked, "Would you care to tell me what the book is about?"  
"Oh, it's _Advanced Potion-Making_," Potter said, pulling the wrapping away. "The textbook we used in our sixth year."  
Draco didn't have to glance at the sideboard to know a copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ sat already there. Most of the textbooks used at Hogwarts hadn't changed in decades. His disappointment must have been showing on his face because Potter suddenly said, "I take it you're not interested."  
"I didn't say that!" Draco retaliated, reminding himself too late that he mustn't give Potter a reason to get angry. The way Potter now glowered at him boded nothing good.  
"All the better. Hermione reckons you're skilled enough to do it." Potter put down the book on his end of the table and placed a small roll of parchment beside it. "Here are her instructions."  
Granger. She was probably the only person who could come up with an idea like re-assessing an old textbook. Doing so might have only the semblance of useful work but it would keep him occupied for many months to come. He desperately longed for something to do, for anything to do. Brewing potions was just fine.  
"For a proper revision, I will have to test the recipes," he said.  
"Sure. Write a list, let's say until next Friday, with everything you need. I'll get it."  
"I will need a wand," Draco said promptly. He had a slender chance, but it was worth a try.  
"No way," Potter said curtly.  
Draco had expected nothing else. To his wonder, Potter elaborated.  
"The Ministry has established new regulations concerning wand trade and possession. Ministry officials have to supervise any purchase or any other change of ownership. If you accidentally damage your wand or lose it, you'll have to go through a ridiculous, time-consuming rigmarole of filling out forms and submitting written explanations until you get a permit to buy a new one." There was a strange hint of bitterness in Potter's voice as he went on, "Nobody is allowed to own more than one wand at a time. Spare ones are to be confiscated. Anyway, I wouldn't let you have a wand if things were less tight. Quite frankly, I don't trust you."  
This was no news, not at all, but it hurt. The nature and intensity of the feeling troubled Draco more than the injury itself. He was sorely reminded of the pain that his father had caused him by insinuating, time and again, what a failure he was. He had never been good enough at anything, not even at being bad.  
"I know you hate me." His voice sounded less firm than he wished, but he had to speak up. He couldn't bear with such treatment anymore. He couldn't accept that the sole difference between his old life and the new one should be the replacement of the person who did the telling. And the telling off. "There's no need to rub it in."  
"It's just the plain truth. I see no point in pretending," Potter said, less harshly than Draco had feared. "I don't like you, Malfoy. I never did. Though I wouldn't call it hate. At least, I don't hate you enough to let them do you in."  
Shuddering, Draco closed his eyes. Needless to ask who _they_ were. They were the many who had been raised to believe – like him – in the fallacy that there was glory in killing.  
"Dumbledore spoke to me about mercy. About choice and that he was willing to help me. I didn't get it. His concepts were completely alien to me," he said, opening his eyes to look straight at Potter. "Thanks to him, my hands are clean today. But the people you're referring to won't bother with such subtleties, will they?"  
"No, not really. They think the best assurance against bloodshed is shedding blood."  
"And shedding mine would be helpful?"  
Potter shrugged. "The aim is to eliminate everyone who might fall back into their old Death Eater ways. I guess they would consider you a potential danger if they knew you're still alive."  
Draco's breath caught.  
"Well, yes, you've been declared dead on the basis that you've been missing for more than a year. For sure, that was half an excuse on their part," Potter went on, sounding almost apologetic. "I saw the official parchments only the day before yesterday. The good thing is, nobody is snooping around looking for you. As long as you keep a low profile, you're quite safe here. On the other hand, some of Scrimgeour's hard-liners might not think twice about finishing you off should they happen – just by accident – to find you. Nobody would ask questions; they'd only straighten out a little legal error."  
Draco struggled to comprehend the consequences. He was _dead_, _legally_ dead. Not a ghost or a ghastly Inferius but – what?  
"They just decreed I wasn't living any longer? Why?"  
"They were keen to seize your family's property – the treasures at Gringotts and the mansions. Being rid of you made that a lot easier."  
Draco shook his head in utter bemusement. He hadn't thought, not for a single moment since he'd learned his parents were dead, about his family's wealth. He'd completely failed to realise that he was the heir to several estates and huge piles of gold. Now, he was glad to have never dwelt on such thoughts.  
The shock still left him speechless. A few scratches of Scrimgeour's quill had rendered him destitute as well as non-existent...  
"I didn't expect you to take such news this stoically," Potter said, eyeing him curiously.  
Draco let out a single, bitter laugh.  
"I'm not Gryffindor. I don't challenge injustice on principle."  
There was nothing for him to gain. Any attempt to stop the pillaging scoundrel of a Minister would lead to his own destruction. Besides, not the gold in _all_ the vaults at Gringotts could bring his mother back... He wrenched his thoughts off the sad topic for fear that he went to pieces in the presence of Potter.  
Potter continued to stare at him, and Draco forced his focus back on the conversation.  
"So you are here to offer me a job as an act of charity?" he asked, trying not to feel humiliated. He had nothing left; he didn't even own the clothes he was wearing. He had nothing left than bare life, and even that he had to conceal from the authorities in order to keep it.  
Potter shook his head. "This isn't about money. I've never bothered about money. When I was younger, I had none at all, and now, I can easily afford the occasional basket of provisions that Ron brings here. – No, the purpose of this book-revising is to honour Severus Snape."  
There was a strange undertone in the last sentence.  
"Why do you wish to honour him?"  
"I have my reasons," Potter said, obviously not inclined to share these reasons.  
"Well, I owe him," Draco said, hesitantly. "He helped save my life. He may be a murderer b-"  
"Don't!" Potter burst out. "Don't call him murderer!"  
"But..." Despite his determined efforts to forget, the jet of green light emanating from Snape's wand and hitting Dumbledore squarely in the chest was one of Draco's clearest memories. "...he killed Dumbledore."  
"That's what people were supposed to believe."  
"I saw it happen," Draco said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I was there."  
"I know. I was there, too."  
"What?" Draco gasped, suddenly remembering the second broom.  
"Dumbledore told me to put my Invisibility Cloak on. Then, he Stunned me – instead of Disarming you. I could do nothing, neither move nor scream. Just watch. First you, than the other Death Eaters, finally Snape."  
Draco swallowed. Potter knew. He knew!  
"Unfortunately, I missed the punch line," Potter continued. "Did you realise what _really_ happened on that tower?"  
"Punch line? Honestly, Potter!" Draco croaked, scandalised. All at once, he felt dangerously close to tears. "That wasn't a joke!"  
"Well, in a manner of speaking, it was. A hoax, a ploy, whatever. And it was on our expense, yours and mine. There, we do have something in common."  
He regarded Potter intently. The Gryffindor didn't look as if he was lying. Why would he be having him on, anyway? Their fights had never been petty taunts, but always unadulterated warfare.  
"They used Legilimency that night! Dumbledore _asked_ Snape to kill him. They'd agreed to taking such a step long before we ever stood on that tower."  
"That's insane..." Draco muttered, but certain memories rose in his mind like bubbles in a seething potion: _Dumbledore trusted me. He got what he deserved... We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens that I trust Professor Snape... I don't think _you_ will kill me, Draco_...  
"Yeah, maybe, but it was Dumbledore's grand plan," Potter carried on. "The deed made Snape Voldemort's favourite, the topmost Death Eater who hardly ever left the boss's side. Only this way, he had a reasonable chance to destroy the last Horcrux at precisely the right moment. He did so in the end, buying me with his prompt action an opportunity to strike."  
"He's... dead?"  
"He is. And I find no words to say how sorry I am. Most people aren't interested to hear them, anyway. Therefore, I thought the book might serve somehow to get him, eventually, the recognition he deserves."  
Was this one of the fundamental answers? Snape had been, despite appearance, Dumbledore's man, and murdered his true master in order to deceive the other one?  
Draco's mind was groaning under the overload of information. For fourteen long months, he had been left to his guessing. Now, he was showered with facts. Unlikely, disturbing, outrageous facts. He felt like drowning in them.  
"May I have some time to think things over?" he asked.  
"What's there to think over? I've told you the facts. Severus Snape wasn't the coward and traitor I believed him to be. You admitted that you owe him," Potter summarised. "You can repay a part of your debt by doing the revision. You'll draw the pictures and diagrams and the like. You'll brew the potions; I'll do the spells if necessary. I'll get you the equipment and ingredients. I'll also take care the book is printed and sold."  
"Are you suggesting we should co-operate?"  
Potter shrugged. "We can give it a try."  
Draco took several deep breaths. Potter offered nothing less than a truce.  
Why not... He had nothing to lose in accepting the outstretched hand, Draco pleaded with himself. He was yearning to do something. Something useful and wholesome. Something normal, something that would meet with appreciation.  
Should he take the plunge and say yes?  
He was confident that he would manage even the more complex potions. All he needed was time to figure out the subtle details. And time he had enough.  
Would Snape consider this a way of making amends?  
"How do you intent to honour Snape with the revised book? Dedicate it to him?"  
"I haven't thought about dedicating it to someone, yet," Potter said. "In any case, Severus Snape will be the author."  
"Isn't that Libatius Borage?"  
"Well, this is a very special copy here. Have a look," Potter said, opened the book and pushed it across the table.  
It was the recipe for the Draught of Living Death, and someone had scribbled all over the page, so that the margins were as black as the printed portions. Glancing in Potter's direction for permission, Draco picked the book up.  
He took his time reading. He needed the break. If Potter grew impatient, so be it.  
There was so much he had to mull over. Random thoughts popped up while he scanned the list of ingredients – Dumbledore's kind words for the terrified would-be assassin, memories of childhood toys that were now Ministry property, Snape's enigmatic conduct that had never given away the man's true loyalties... He couldn't concentrate on anything. He was too used to his long hours of contemplating to make decisions on the spot. Well, coming to that, he wasn't used to making decisions.  
With an inward sigh, he perused the list of ingredients again. One item was crossed out. The word _Sopophorous_ was hardly legible between the tiny, cramped handwriting. "Crush with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting," the remark read. Hang on, these were altered instructions!  
Now with genuine interest, Draco read on. "Add a clockwise stir after every seventh counter-clockwise stir." That was clever. It would cause the potion to turn the required shade of pale pink sooner.  
"Who made those notes?" he asked, looking up.  
"Snape. This was his book when he was in school."  
"Snape's? How did you get it?"  
"Well, Slughorn gave it to me because I had none at the beginning of the year."  
It took Draco a moment to work this out. As he came to a conclusion, he very nearly laughed.  
"You cheated, Potter?" he chuckled. "_You_ cheated?"  
"Well, that's a matter of perspective," Potter answered, not batting an eye. "I merely followed the instructions in my textbook."  
The dry reply caused even more chuckles.  
"Why do you think this so funny?" Potter demanded.  
"Because this is marvellous. It's the first thing I hear from you today that's got nothing to do with war, or death, or vengeance. Just imagine such a life – cheating teachers, getting detention for petty crimes like turning the fur of Mrs Norris blue, courting girls instead of-" his voice failed him from one second to the next. Instead of fighting a war our fathers started, he finished the sentence in his mind.  
Potter looked distinctly worried. As Draco saw the frown deepen, he hastened to return to their topic, " I... sorry... I got carried away. Do you want me to copy down the hand-written portions first? The original is too valuable to risk spilling potion all over it. It should be kept safe somewhere."  
"Does this mean you will check over the book?" Potter asked, still nervous.  
Draco hesitated. Too readily, he'd always consented to whatever was expected of him. Would he make just another mistake if he agreed to Potter's proposition?  
"Excuse me a moment," he muttered. He half turned away and said loudly, "Dobby?"  
_Crack_. The elf appeared a split second later, looking ready to throw himself between the fighting parties.  
"Dobby, Harry Potter here," Draco said, using full names like elves preferred to do, "wants me to work for him. Do you think this is a good idea?"  
"But this is a great idea!" the elf beamed. "I will be very happy if you get along well with Harry Potter, young Mr Malfoy."  
"Thanks. I only wanted to hear that," Draco said, nodding to the little chap.  
The elf gave the slightest of bows and, smiling quietly to himself, left.  
Draco turned back to a rather confused looking Potter. "All right, then. I'll do the revision. Even if none of the other reasons will hold, I owe Dobby a favour."  
While he spoke, Potter's expression became one of incredulity mingled with plain shock.  
"Did you expect me to say no?" Draco asked.  
"I don't know what I expected. Certainly not that you would ask Dobby for advice."  
"What's wrong with that?"  
"Nothing. Perhaps I didn't expect you to do something that wasn't wrong."  
There Potter went again. The distrust ran so deep... The fears were, at least to a considerable extent, mutual, and Draco had to admit that he had no inkling how to bridge the gap.  
"There is something else," Potter said. "Sit down."  
Draco reached for his chair and sat down, watching with apprehension Potter doing the same at the other side of the table.  
"Do you remember the incident in the bathroom?"  
"I... I was about..." Draco said and fell silent. Where should he start? How to convey the twisted inner logic of his life to someone as unalike to him as Potter?  
He stole a glance at Potter's stern face, seeing muscles twitch in the jaw. Potter did not seem to feel too comfortable, either. How would he? What had happened in that bathroom had been the culmination of six years of hatred and hostilities.  
Draco felt his heart hammer in his chest. Perhaps this was the moment to do what he had never done before – giving voice to his angst.  
"My father cheated on my mother. Not once or twice, but perpetually." Potter looked utterly bewildered and made as if to speak. Draco hurriedly raised his hands to silence him. He couldn't stand any interruption now. "He slept probably with every au pair girl that came to our house. When he got tired of one of them he sent her away and hired a new one. I was six, eight, ten years old and I didn't comprehend what was going on. I genuinely believed the girls were sacked because they neglected their duties in educating me. I strove hard, even back then. I didn't want to disappoint my father. Yet, the results of my best efforts always fell short of his expectations. Or so it seemed. Maybe saying my education wasn't coming along well enough was only his excuse for replacing the girls after one or two months. But I felt like I was a failure.  
If anybody had told me... If I had spotted him kissing some such girl, if my mother had said something or, perhaps, Dobby...  
My father was my role model, my idol; what he said was the essence of truth. It was true because he said it. Never, ever, a shadow of doubt crossed my mind.  
Maybe, if I _had known_ that he was by far less perfect than I believed, than I was led to believe, or than I made myself believe, then, perhaps, things might have gone differently.  
The way it was, I walked down the path I had set out on in the beginning, and I never looked left nor right. Of course I wouldn't, since I had the right direction, whereas everybody who didn't share my father's opinions was either sadly mistaken or deliberately naughty. Don't look at me like that. I'm just telling you _my_ truth now. This was what I thought of you: You had either to be really stupid or extremely arrogant. I never found another explanation for your behaviour. It didn't occur to me that I might be the one who was wrong. That's the cruel irony of being a fool – you never realise that you have a subscription to foolishness."  
"Malfoy, I wanted-"  
"No, please, hear me out. You can judge afterwards." Draco could sense the pleading tone in his voice. He didn't mind. He needed someone to listen to him. Nobody ever had. Worse, even if anybody had been willing to listen, he wouldn't have had the courage to talk.  
"Okay, fine," Potter said, oddly hesitant. "You thought your way was the right one. Does this have to do with our fight in the bathroom?"  
Draco slowly nodded. "Well, yes, my way led me straight into this room. Only once – and that was a fortnight before we met in said bathroom – I was tempted to stray from my path. Rather than to embrace he opportunity, I fought it. And when I saw myself losing the battle, I asked Madam Pomfrey for a potion that would help me to drive the peculiar ideas from my mind. I should add in her defence that she knew nothing about my doings. I lied to her as I lied to everybody – to Vince and Greg, to Snape and to the ghost girl that dwells in a u-bend. Myrtle was nice to me. She didn't know my name; she didn't know what the Mark on my arm meant. I lied to her, nonetheless.  
I suppose you want a clearer answer than the one I can give. On that day in the bathroom, I was about to say _Crucio_. I cannot tell whether I meant it. It takes heartfelt hatred to bring it off.  
I learned at a young age that hurting other people was an effective means to discharge frustration. And frustrated I was a lot. I failed much too often. The harder I tried, the less I achieved. With every day, I drifted farther away from my goal of becoming like my father, or, more exactly, like the image I had of him.  
For years, teasing and taunting had been enough. But things got worse. Oh yes, I relished treading on your face the evening we arrived at Hogwarts. I daresay I relished it at least as much as your entourage enjoyed treading on Vince and Greg a year previously." He paused for a second, puzzled to see the shame he felt reflected on Potter's face. "But that day, I was beyond mere frustration. There was nothing but despair. Fear practically paralysed my thoughts. I don't know how these feelings might have affected the curse. I don't know what I would have done to you if you had not dodged it."  
Potter's eyes had gone wide. He sat there, absolutely motionless, and stared at him.  
Did he expect a more explicit apology?  
Draco knew he felt sorry. He regretted every minute of his life that he'd spend hating everybody but the people who deserved hatred. But did he feel sorry for what he might have done to Potter or just for himself?  
"I didn't know what I was doing to you, either," Potter said at length, breaking the creepy silence.  
"Snape told me afterwards that you misspelled a hex," Draco said tentatively.  
"He lied. Open the book where there is a corner folded down. Page one hundred and forty nine."  
Draco complied. Page one hundred and forty nine was as much covered in black handwriting like any other one.  
"There in the margin, you find the curse I used on you. It's captioned 'For Enemies'."  
Draco found the incantation instantly.  
"Sectumsempra?" he said. "I've never heard that one."  
"Yes, you have. You heard me bellow it at you. I didn't misspell, and the curse did exactly what it was supposed to do. The point is that _I_ didn't know what it was supposed to do. I – I admit that it was more than a bit foolish of me to use a spell of which I didn't know the effect."  
How very typical of Potter – rushing into action without thinking. Then again, Draco reminded himself, he had tried to _Crucio_ him. In some way, they got even.  
His scars had healed so thoroughly he could hardly make them out although he knew where they ran. _Scars you can see in a mirror_...  
What about the scars on his soul? Those who had caused them could not apologise anymore. Potter, however, did feel guilty as Draco could tell by the look on his face. The realisation shocked him more than anything else he'd learned today.  
"I can't change what happened," Potter said awkwardly. "None of us can. We'll have to make do with the past we've got. But the future is ours to shape."  
Future. Life. Draco dared to hope for the first time in fourteen months. He would like to live. He would like his life to be worth living.  
"I always wanted to be my father's perfect son. I tried hard, and look, where it got me. I think it is time for a change. I should do something as unexpected of a Malfoy as co-operating with you."  
"Fine," Potter said and got up. "See you next Friday."  
Draco rose to his feet, too, following the rules of formal politeness that he'd been taught in his childhood. A bit of decorum would not worsen his situation. However, before he could think of an appropriate phrase to utter – strictly seen, Potter was the host and he the guest – Potter stopped halfway to the door and came back. He went to the window.  
"How did you do that?" he demanded. "This park wasn't there before!"  
"I did nothing," Draco said, carefully maintaining a two steps distance between him and Potter. "Dobby reversed a spell that had made the pane looking like frosted glass. The park isn't real, though. There is an enchantment placed upon the window."  
"It's beautiful," Potter said softly.  
"It is," Draco agreed. "Sometimes, there are even animals."  
Several days ago, he had seen them wandering under the light of the full moon. Only in the choice of these animals the mysterious creator had gone slightly wrong. A stag and two dogs – the smaller of which had fairly looked like a wolf – would hardly roam together so peacefully. Draco would have preferred smaller creatures, anyway. Kneazles or-  
Should he beg?  
All things considered, there might be no other way.  
"May I-" he broke off, cleared his throat, and started again, "May I ask you a favour?"  
"Oh, indeed?" Potter snarled, taking his gaze from the sun-bathed park. "What else can I do for you?"  
Draco bit his lip while he tried his best to ignore the sarcasm. Of course, there were plenty of Slytherin stereotypes that fitted for someone making requests in his situation: arrogance, egoism, maybe impudence.  
"May I?"  
"Spit it out," Potter retorted gruffly.  
"I need a book," he said as composedly as possible. "Dobby Apparates to the Menhir every day to fetch one of Dumbledore's, but he keeps coming back with manuscripts about charming goats into giving more milk or with tomes full of ancient runes. I don't think it's his fault. I rather suspect there is an Anti-Theft Charm of the kind that is often used in libraries or book stores: If you try to smuggle out a book illegally, you'll inevitably end up with a wrong one, preferably with one nobody wants to buy or borrow. Well, be this as it may, I do need something about Animagus Transfiguration. No specific title, anything dealing with aspects of becoming or being an Animagus would be fine."  
"A book about Animagus Transfiguration? What are you up to?"  
"I can't take any deliberate action. I have no wand. But... there was this episode in our fourth year. Do you remember how that madman turned me into a ferret?" he waited for Potter to nod before he continued, "I keep having dreams about being a ferret. I'm afraid I will wake up one day in a bed that is ten times too large for me. And I have no idea how to change back without help-"  
"Merlin's beard, Malfoy!" Potter exclaimed. "Don't you think we have enough difficulties already?"  
"Look, Potter, this is just coming my way. I didn't ask for it."  
Potter's expression softened ever so slightly.  
"Yeah, right. I'll see what I can do. Hermione has recently acquired a number of useful old tomes..." He trailed off as if embarrassed by mentioning Granger or her books.  
"Thanks..." Draco murmured.  
An uncomfortable silence ensued as neither of them seemed to know what else to say.  
"A ferret," Potter sighed at last. "A _ferret_... Tell Dobby to alert me if he ever encounters a ferret in the house."  
"Okay."  
Eyeing him up and down with a peculiar intensity, Potter added, "However, an Animagus form like this might come in handy in emergencies. There're lots of hidey-holes for little mammals."  
"I'm no Animagus, yet. Nor is it _sure_ that I will become one," Draco said, amazed at Potter's ability to see some positive facet even in the most bizarre problem.  
Snapping into action, Potter snatched the book from the table and thrust it into Draco's hands.  
"There. Make yourself useful by making a copy, page by page, word by word. And write the shopping list so that I have enough time to get everything. With the worst imaginable selection of bureaucrats in charge, there is no predicting what they outlaw next. Perhaps the purchase of boomslang skin for the reason of preventing runaway Death Eaters from using Polyjuice Potion. I wouldn't put it past them."  
Draco, holding the precious book, only nodded.  
"Well then, see you on Friday."  
This time, Potter did leave.  
Draco watched him exit, murmuring a hushed Good-bye.  
He remained where he stood for a long time. Regarding the peaceful scene that pretended to exist outside the window, he waited for the turmoil in his mind to subside.  
In the end, he found himself able to sum up the conversation in one sentence.  
He had been given a second chance.

- - - - -

() I wrote this before learning from _Deathly Hallows_ that house-elves could Apparate three people at one go. I have left it unchanged because I promised to keep to my original plans. These plans said that Harry and Draco had to reach an understanding, which wouldn't be necessary if Dobby could simply Apparate Draco back to the Menhir.

Author's note: Special thanks go to duj, my kind and patient beta-reader.


End file.
